


Pie As Metaphor

by JuniperJones



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:42:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 46,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27577372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuniperJones/pseuds/JuniperJones
Summary: Castiel Novak is a highly successful novelist. But personal relationships are problematic for him. It’s hard to make friends when you have severe anxiety disorders and your face is locked in a permanent scowl. Harder still when truly beautiful people leave you with the conversational skills of a goldfish.His move to the remote tiny one-horse town of Haven’s Cove is an attempt to wallow in blessed solitude long enough to get a couple of books written. He didn’t expect to fall out with a neighbor he’d never even met, let alone steal that mysterious Dean Winchester’s pet cat. He definitely had no intention of falling in instant lust with the green-eyed, freckled owner of Dexter’s Really Useful Shop. A man Castiel naturally assumed was named ‘Dexter’.A comedy of errors featuring a very grumpy Cas, a one-eyed cat named Atticat Finch, a gorgeous shop-keeper whose mission is to save the world one customer at a time, and a whole town full of friendly do-gooders whose efforts to unravel the misunderstandings between Dean and Cas just keep digging the hole deeper.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 45
Kudos: 197
Collections: DCBB 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to my wonderful artist Alex for her absolutely amazing artwork and to contemplativepancakes for her patient Beta.
> 
> It feels like I wrote this a lifetime ago, so I am thrilled to finally post it as part of the DeanCas Big Bang.

“Holy Crap!” Gabriel exclaimed so suddenly that Castiel jumped, swerved, and almost mounted the curb. Fortunately he was driving slowly enough that it was easy to wrestle back control of the vehicle, but the trailer hitched to the back of his station-wagon slewed dangerously for a moment as though it might detach and continue down the sidewalk by itself.

“What?” he demanded, his damp palms slip-sliding on molded plastic as he turned the wheel to regain control. He grimaced apologetically at a hobbling old lady who had almost dropped her groceries in fright at the near disaster.

As she straightened and regained her balance, an apple rolled out of her paper sack and raced for short-lived freedom before it expired under his tires with a loud, dirty squelch.

His grimace deepened into a wince of guilt at the inadvertent applecide. A pummelled Malus pumila. Was that Malucide, perhaps? Or did the lack of premeditation make it ‘appleslaughter’? Maluslaughter? Before he could spiral further down that particular mental rabbit hole, he was distracted by a fresh horror. 

Instead of rightly shaking her fist at him, her face twisting into old lady rage, she shrugged her frail shoulders lightly and offered him a sweet, thin-lipped smile of benediction. Serene. Forgiving. 

The incongruity made his heart leap into staccato. 

He had a sudden conviction that behind those old lady lips lay not dentures but teeth as sharp and dangerous as a shark’s.

_One, one thousand; two, one thousand; three, one thousand; inhale, exhale._

“We’ve gotta get out of here,” Gabriel squealed like a teenage girl, clutching his cheeks dramatically in a parody of ‘the scream’. “This is turning into a Stephen King book. The whole town is cursed or something. You can’t possibly move here.”

_One, one thousand; two, one thousand; three, one thousand; inhale, exhale._

Yet, as always, Gabriel’s outrageous behavior created a safe wall he could drop beneath and become the normal one. Impossible for him to ever be the focus of attention when all eyes were drawn to Gabriel’s antics. In his brother’s company, the bar for normality was set so abnormally low that it was always achievable with a little breath control.

_One, one thousand; two, one thousand; three, one thousand; inhale, exhale._

So, as his heart beat slowed, as his lungs stopped burning, Castiel simply rolled his eyes at his older brother’s antics. “It is too late to change my mind, as you well know. I have already bought the house and I fully intend to live in it.”

“Sight unseen,” Gabriel intoned darkly. “Just like the start of a creepy horror movie about ghosts and cursed artifacts. It’s gonna turn out to have been built over the bones of slaughtered settlers or shipwrecked sailors. Or... or built on top of a hell gate maybe.” 

“As you have been telling me for the last five weeks,” Castiel sighed, rolling his eyes as his own panic receded completely. As he became the reasonable one. The sane one. “Perhaps you should have become the writer. You certainly have a fertile imagination. Or perhaps you’ve been binge watching the Buffy box sets again?” he suggested.

Gabriel flushed hotly. “Don’t diss the Buff. She’s the sole reason I pay for Netflix. Hubba. Hubba.” His eyebrows danced dramatically. “But seriously, Cassie, have you seen this town? It looks as fake as a movie set. Twee. Cute. And not in a good way. Where’s the litter? Where’s the weeds? You think it’s normal for every single building to be painted in pastels and perfectly maintained? And what’s with all the lush hanging baskets? You telling me not one person here ever forgets to water their goddamned flowers? And, most damning of all, everyone is smiling. Everyone. That’s not normal. It’s Stepford-level creepy.”

Castiel huffed out an audible breath. “I admit that the old lady I nearly ran over is smiling. Which is peculiar, although, given her advanced years, senility is very possibly a consideration in her particular case. But not everyone is smiling. You are not smiling. I am _definitely_ not smiling.”

He glowered deliberately in his brother’s direction. Admittedly, the expression was not significantly different from his usual demeanor.

“Jackass,” Gabriel snorted. “You never smile. You have fewer facial expressions than a muppet.”

“It’s called blunted affect and is not indicative of my emotional state,” Castiel replied, with the bored tone of someone tired of endlessly repeating the phrase.

“I call bullshit, bro. Because your typical Smitey McSmite bitchface is masterful.”

“My what?” Castiel demanded, his frown deepening significantly as though in denial of his claim of blunted affect.

“That one,” Gabriel crowed. “Your default glowery ‘I will put you down, you dog, at a hundred paces, simply with the power of my disdain’ expression.”

“I diligently practice this one in the mirror,” Castiel replied, honestly and slightly proudly. “It tends to repel the approach of the majority of strangers and thus avoids uncomfortable situations developing. I am, of course, always smiling on the inside,” he added dryly.

Gabriel snorted with genuine amusement. “You’ve got more anxiety disorders than I’ve got clean socks. So why am I the one panicking here? How come you’re all Prozac-boy about this weird as fuck place? Huh. Are you on Prozac again?”

“I changed to Anafranil months ago,” Castiel replied coolly.

Gabriel looked horrified. “Fuck, bro. I’m sorry. I was only joking about the Prozac thing. I had no idea you were back on the meds again.”

Castiel merely shrugged one shoulder. “I have a medical problem. I take medicine and the problem goes away. Why should that be a source of embarrassment? The only reason mental illnesses carry stigma at all is people’s tendencies to consider them a taboo subject.”

Gabriel pursed his lips thoughtfully. “You’re back on meds because of the Amelia thing, huh?”

Castiel shrugged lightly, dismissing his brother’s concern. “Several ‘things’ came to a head. I dealt with them. I moved on. This relocation is also part of me ‘moving on’. A fresh start. My therapist approved it as an act of positivity.”

“Only because he didn’t know you were moving to Stepford,” Gabriel suggested darkly.

“It’s not ‘Stepford’. It’s perfectly charming,” Castiel said firmly. “Even more so than the realtor described it. A perfect coastal tourist trap, just as she said. Hopefully the house itself will also exceed my expectations.”

“Oh sure. The town looks pretty. It’s deliberate camouflage. That’s how they get you to drop your guard. But it’s in Maine,” Gabriel pointed out. “Which should have been clue number one. Everything bad happens in Maine, doesn’t it?”

“It’s called Heron’s Cove, not Castle Rock,” Castiel said tiredly. “You do realize King writes fiction rather than documentaries?”

”Aha,” Gabriel declared triumphantly. “That’s what you’re supposed to think. It’s all smoke and mirrors, bro. We just passed a sign directing us to a place called R.I.P. Harbor. You telling me that isn’t spooky as fuck?”

“It wasn’t an acronym. It said ‘Rip’, as in current or tide,” Castiel sighed, rolling his eyes impatiently once more.

“Yeah?” Gabriel challenged. “So it’s also just a coincidence that every single shop and street here is named after an actual serial killer?”

“WHAT?” Castiel demanded, slamming on the brakes so hard that the trailer bucked and the driver of a car behind them had to swerve wildly before overtaking with a disgusted blast of their horn.

Gabriel started ticking them off on his fingers. “We’re driving down Gacy Street, past Ted’s Pie Palace, Jack’s Bakery, Aileen’s Hair Salon, Jeffrey's Second Hand Books, Herman’s Bar, David’s Delicious Desserts, and Dexter’s Really Useful Shop.” He paused and frowned as the last one completely derailed his own thoughts. “What the hell is a ‘really useful shop’?”

Castiel cocked his head, peered sideways down the street and squinted as he said, “It appears to be some kind of hardware store with extras like racks of plants and houseware and postcards and… um... pet products I think. Anything useful, I suppose. And you’re really grasping with the names. There are over 70,000 people named ‘Ted’ in America alone. Now if it said ‘Bundy’s pies’ I might think you have a point. Or ‘Todd’s’ pies, perhaps.”

“Todd’s Barbershop would be more worrying,” Gabriel chuckled. “Particularly if it was located next door to a ‘Pie Palace’. I’d definitely suggest you embrace the idea of becoming a wild-haired, unshaven hermit in that scenario.”

“I know you’re worried about me,” Castiel said, his tone more conciliatory. “But I thought your issue was with the fact I was ‘running away’, not with where I am running away to.”

“Fine,” Gabriel sighed. “I give in. The place looks nice. I admit it. But it’s tiny. I can’t even see how it has the audacity to call itself a ‘Town’. It’s more like a… a… hiccup. Yeah. A hiccup of houses. Did you see that sign we passed on the outskirts? Population 411. That’s not a town. It’s a burp. More to the point, the statistical odds of there even being more than half a dozen single guys here in your age group, let alone any of them also being gay, is a gadzillion to one. I mean I get that you had a bad break-up with Amelia but, if you really intend to spend the rest of your life as a reclusive celibate hermit, you might as well have just joined a monastery.”

“Small suggests homely. Neighborly,” Castiel argued.

“Because you’re such a neighborly person yourself,” Gabriel mocked disparagingly. “Mr. Congeniality. The life and soul of the party.”

Castiel sniffed. “Perhaps I will be here.”

“Only if this really is Stepford and all new residents receive a complete personality transplant,” Gabriel said.

Had anyone else said it, Castiel probably would have protested the point. But his brother knew him too well for any prevarication to be worthwhile, so Castiel decided to save his breath.“You may have a point,” he admitted, “but I highly doubt I will be spending the ‘rest of my life’ here anyway. I just want some peace and quiet for a while. I have three more books under contract and if I don’t get at least one of them finished this summer, I’ll be in breach of that contract. Crowley’s already threatened to string me up on a rack and beat the words out of me.”

“The sad thing is you think that’s hyperbole,” Gabriel muttered. “Your agent is a seriously disturbing man.”

“He’s right though,” Castiel sighed. “A seven-book series deal for a new writer was almost unheard of. I do owe it to him to get the final three books out on schedule. So a couple of years here, without distractions, is exactly what I need. I’ll worry about my celibate monk status afterwards.”

“And it’s a tourist town,” Gabriel allowed. “Even if the locals are probably a bunch of interbred hicks, you might get a bit of hunky summer-loving,” he suggested, with a waggle of his eyebrows. “Perhaps if you diligently practiced a ‘smile’ rather than a frown, you might actually get lucky for a change.”

“Would you just give up on the relationship advice?” Castiel groaned. “You endlessly return every conversation to a discussion of my non-existent love life.”

“I’m being ‘sensitive’ and ‘supportive’,” Gabriel argued. “I read a PFLAG leaflet once.”

“Of course you did.”

“Okay, so I just hate the thought you came out and got booted out of the family for nothing. You might as well have kept the reason you left Amelia to yourself if you were just going to put your dick into cold storage anyway. You know our mother will never speak to you again.”

“Such a heartbreak. I really don’t know how I’ll bear it,” Castiel drawled.

“I know mom sucks, but I bet you’ll miss those Christmas Hampers she sends out to make sure none of us actually turn up for the celebration and embarrass her in front of her neighbors.”

“Actually, I bet I’ll still get them,” Castiel chuckled.

“What? How the hell do you figure that?”

“Because she’s now doubly invested in making sure I don’t ever visit the house again,” Castiel said wryly. “Despite my soul apparently being consigned to hell eternally, I’d wager I’ll still receive the Novak Hamper. If only because she’ll be so determined to pretend I don’t exist that she’ll totally forget to remove me off her P.A.’s gift list.”

“Point. I’ll make sure to update Hannah’s address book with your new place, in case you’re right. Speaking of which, where the hell is it? We’re running out of road.”

“Maybe I missed a turn,” Castiel suggested, as the windscreen filled with a rapidly approaching view of the ocean.

“No, there,” Gabriel suddenly said, pointing to where a couple of slightly battered mail boxes marked the corner of a tiny road running parallel to the cliff edge. “You’re gonna need a four-wheel-drive for the winter, Bro. This is a dirt track.”

“I can trade this car in for something more suitable,” Castiel agreed, as they bounced squeakily down the dusty track filled with puddles and potholes. “Maybe I’ll look at the dealerships when I drop you off at the airport tomorrow.”

“Do that. Get yourself a decent trade-in off this thing while it still has shocks,” he said, just before they hit a particularly deep pothole with bone-jolting force. “OW. Too late. You sure you want to be this remote?”

“I like my privacy,” Castiel said mildly, beginning to slalom the car around a series of further holes.

“Too much,” Gabriel complained. “That’s my point. You have a habit of locking your front door and literally disappearing for weeks at a time. It’s not healthy. Most kids aspire to be firemen or astronauts. You clearly decided you wanted to grow up to be Richard Neville.”

“Enjoying my privacy does not equate to a desire to be the sole survivor of an apocalypse. Besides, I have a neighbor,” Castiel countered. “This private road serves both houses. So even if I get cut off in winter, which I agree is a possibility, I won’t be totally alone.”

“He might be a serial killer,” Gabriel intoned darkly.

“She might be a brain surgeon.”

“It’s a woman?

“I have no idea. I’m just telling you to stop assuming the worst. Oh…”

“Oh, indeed,” Gabriel agreed, as the dirt track branched into a short V-shape and two houses came into view, one on each branch of the vee.

“It is even prettier than the realtors’s brochure suggested,” Cas said, with a sigh of relief as he looked at the left-hand property.

“Roof looks okay,” Gabriel admitted. “Yard’s a bit overgrown.”

“It’s apparently been empty since early Spring.”

“You’d think your neighbor would at least have kept on top of your lawn. Would have been the neighborly thing to do,” Gabriel grumbled.

Both properties should have been carbon copies of each other, two cute cookie cutter houses sitting either side of the V but while the one on the right was freshly painted and well-maintained, even its sash windows replaced by modern double-glazing, the one on the left, Castiel’s, was in need of some serious TLC. Nothing structural, thank goodness. Castiel was in possession of a thorough independent survey confirming the house was sound and free of defects. But it definitely needed some modernization, a lick of exterior paint and a lot of time spent in the garden. The garden was more of a happy anticipation than a chore though.

“I made a point of stressing to the realtor how excited I was to be buying a property with such a large yard. I even mentioned my intention to encourage a wildflower meadow to encourage bees and butterflies. Maybe she told the neighbor to leave well enough alone.”

Gabriel just sniffed, unconvinced, and glared balefully at the neighboring property with its neatly-cut lawn, new windows and freshly painted front door. There was no dividing fence between the houses, just an almost surgical marking of the exact delineation of the property line by the contrast between neat lawn and wild tangled growth. It struck him as unfriendly rather than a considerate acknowledgement of Castiel’s love of wildflowers. A passive aggressive statement that Castiel was unwelcome. There was something just too precise about the way the land between the houses had been divided in two by the neighbor’s mowing.

He shrugged, shook himself, and followed Castiel into his new house.

“Good god,” he sighed, half an hour later. “I knew this place was going to be haunted. This place screams it was previously owned by some ancient cat lady.”

On hold to the electric company, who should have already turned on the services before their arrival but somehow hadn’t done so, Castiel blinked at him slowly. “How on earth have you concluded it’s haunted? It’s actually even better inside than I had imagined. Just get rid of the chintz curtains, strip the wallpaper, swap the carpets for hardwood and it’s going to be perfect.”

“You think getting rid of the drapes will remove the lingering stench of lavender and old lady piss? I bet her ghost is hovering right now, ready to stab you in the eye with a knitting needle the minute you try removing any of her shit.”

Castiel wondered, not for the first time, why he had ever thought bringing Gabriel along to help him move in would be a ‘good’ idea. “Except for the totally normal mustiness to be expected inside any property that has been shut up and empty for a couple of months, there are no unpleasant smells here whatsoever. And as for ghosts, the owner isn’t even dead. She’s apparently just moved to some assisted-living condominium in the suburbs,” he said, proud he managed to keep his tone even and reasonable.

“Oh, that’s disappointing. Shoots my vengeful ghost theory in the foot, I guess.” Gabriel said, before looking out of the kitchen window towards the neighboring property. “And at least it’s easy to see how it will look like. Your best bet is to find out who did the work on your neighbor’s house, then hire them to do the same for you.”

“I most certainly will not,” Castiel said firmly. “Why on earth would I deliberately purchase a house with history and character, only to attempt to make it look like a new build? Those modern windows are obscenely out of place.” He sniffed derisively towards the other property. 

“You won’t be saying that in winter when you need to wear three sweaters in here just to avoid freezing to death,” Gabriel muttered.

“This house has character and charm,” Castiel insisted, “and the window of the study has a clear view over the back yard towards the ocean. I’m planning to put my writing desk there so that I can soak up the atmosphere as I work.”

“You mean stare broodingly at the approaching storm clouds,” Gabriel countered. “Though, I admit, I can see why the sea might inspire you. I just don’t see why you couldn’t have done a Hemmingway and moved somewhere warmer. I can see the charm of sitting on a beach in a sun lounger, with a Pina Colada, as you tap out your great American novel on your iPad. Not so sure huddling here over a typewriter with a hot chocolate is going to have the same effect. Especially if you starve to death. Didn’t you say the whole town shuts down completely between November and March?”

“Most of the shops and stores here close on October 31st and don’t reopen until Spring,” Castiel admitted. “But that’s because they do all their trade during the tourist season. The realtor assured me at least one local store stays open all year and will sell everything I might require.”

“Probably Dexters,” Gabriel said decisively. “That’s obviously the true definition of a ‘really useful shop’. One that’s actually open,” he added with a cackle.

Castiel shrugged. “I doubt I’ll shop in town that much anyway. Bangor’s only an hour’s drive away and I’ll stock up on provisions there tomorrow after I drop you off.”

“I could change my flight,” Gabriel offered, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “Yeah, yeah, you’re an adult. The house seems fine. The town is nice enough if you ignore it’s filled with serial killers, possibly also moonlighting as witches who apparently go into hibernation after Halloween—because that’s not suspicious at all. Why don’t I at least stay until after the weekend to help you settle in?”

Castiel knew Gabriel was serious. Hell, he’d probably jack in his career altogether and stay indefinitely if Castiel asked him to. And it was tempting in a way. Unlike other people who tip-toed around Castiel’s issues, Gabriel handled his anxieties by outlining a series of more and more outrageous theories of danger and conspiracies until Castiel was the one forced to take the role of responsible adult.

To an outsider, Gabriel’s attitude and behavior was irresponsible and insensitive. For Castiel, it was like a security blanket. As long as he could play the adulting role in their relationship he could believe that his own behavior was relatively ‘normal’. Certainly, during his teenage years Gabriel had successfully diverted almost all negative attention from Castiel’s ’quirks’ by deliberately behaving in a way that drew most people’s attention to himself instead.

But using his older brother as a buffer and a crutch was not a healthy long-term solution for either of them.

“Because you have a job and a life,” Castiel pointed out. “Both of which you’ve already put pretty much on hold for the last few weeks. It’s time for me to stand on my own two feet again.”

Gabriel looked unhappy but resigned. “In that case, let’s get you unpacked, then we can go back into town, check out those shops and you can at least introduce yourself to the locals before you inevitably bury yourself away completely. At least prove to them you don’t get immolated by sunlight before you disappear, or you’ll wake up one morning with a stake in your heart.”

Castiel snorted and agreed, but by the time they had emptied the trailer and made the main bedroom habitable, they were both too exhausted to do anything except share a family-sized bag of chips and a couple of lukewarm beers before crashing together still fully clothed on top of Castiel’s bed. Something they both regretted the next morning, when they woke stiff, crumpled and cold.

Fortunately, the electricity was finally up and running by then, so they were able to shower in deliciously hot water and knock up a half decent breakfast out of the perishables they had brought with them. The freezer would have hit temperature by the time Castiel returned from Bangor, so he decided he’d do a substantial shop to fill it before returning to Heron’s Cove.

“By the way, I heard your neighbor’s truck doing the drive of shame home at around five am.”

“That’s unnecessarily judgmental,” Castiel chided. “Maybe they work nights.”

“Nope, ‘cos he left again about an hour later with wet hair and a change of clothes. Definitely looked like he was going to work when he left again.”

“So it’s a man?”

“Or a very tall, butch woman. Was a bit far away to see for sure, but I’d put odds on it being a guy. Has a cowboy strut.”

“I know I’m going to regret asking this, but define a cowboy strut.”

“One of those cocky, man-spreading, ‘my balls are too big to walk without bowing my legs’ strides.”

“Or he or she simply has bowed legs?”

“You suck the fun out of everything Cassie. You are a fun vampire. Hmmm. Maybe you’ll fit in around here after all. Point is, though, that I’m sure it’s a guy.”

“I don’t suppose it matters either way.”

Gabriel subsided. As the one who had pointed out the total improbability of Castiel meeting someone gay and single at all in a population of 411, he wasn’t in a strong position to make a big deal about the existence of a possibly single male neighbor.

And, anyway, the passive aggressiveness of the precisely anal lawn mowing was still bothering him.

###

Castiel had intended to look at the car dealerships in Bangor after leaving Gabriel at the airport but, since he didn’t have much interest in—or knowledge of—cars, he allowed himself to become distracted with stocking up on groceries instead until it was too late to look at cars too if he was going to get home before dark. He wanted to be far more familiar with the dirt track to his house before he attempted to traverse its potholes at night.

He wondered whether his neighbor might be open to the idea of getting the road paved, or at least smoothed and filled. It wasn’t that long a track. If they shared the cost, it might not be prohibitive and it would probably add value to both houses anyway. Raising the query would at least give him an excuse to say hello.”

Castiel was painfully inept at ‘small talk’, so he thought it would be beneficial to have an actual excuse to start a conversation when the two of them inevitably met.

He made good time back to Heron’s Cove, fortunately for the frozen goods he had in a cooler in the rear of his car, and judging he still had a good hour or so before the sun started to set, he pulled up outside of the store signposted ‘Jack’s Bakery’. He’d already purchased bread but only a few generic sliced loaves to throw in the freezer and toast a couple of slices at a time, so the idea of buying a fresh artisan loaf was appealing.

It was late enough in the evening for the shop to be nearly deserted, except for a browsing middle aged couple wearing what Castiel assumed was tourist attire, since the only other time he’d ever seen someone pair a Hawaiian shirt with daisy dukes was Gabriel’s last memorable visit home before their mother had pointedly stopped inviting either of them to Christmas lunch.

The counter was almost bare, only crumbs remaining to evidence the earlier existence of freshly baked bounty, but he spied a plump pumpkin-seed loaf amongst the detritus of the day and pointed to it eagerly.

“You vacationing nearby or just passing through?” the young, red-haired server asked him brightly, as she wrapped the bread in paper - something that cheered him up inordinately since he was on a personal campaign to avoid plastic waste.

“Neither,” he told her, hoping his short reply and religiously practiced glower would shut her down. He wasn’t being unfriendly. He was just useless at pointless ‘small talk’, so preferred to avoid it whoever possible. Over the years he’d come to the conclusion it was always better to say less, rather than more, if he wished to avoid inadvertently saying the ‘wrong’ thing. After several embarrassing incidents in his childhood, his mother had always stressed that endeavoring to be seen but not heard should be his maxim in life.

Since he’d consequently discovered that framing what he wanted to say in the form of the written, rather than the spoken, word was financially beneficial, he no longer even stressed overmuch about his social awkwardness.

There were only two people Castiel conversed with comfortably. His brother, because Gabriel was irrepressible and chivied at him mercilessly unless he reciprocated; and his agent, Crowley, who was too bombastic to allow himself to be shut down by Castiel’s one-word answers. Most people found Castiel’s initial awkwardness (and fixed frown) to be so off putting that they gave up on him immediately. They just dismissed him as ‘rude’ and that, whilst unfortunate, at least saved him the embarrassment of trying, and failing, to appear personable.

The server, however, failed to react appropriately. She arched a brow in query and waited, deliberately holding the bread just slightly out of reach until he capitulated.

“I purchased a house here and moved in yesterday” he muttered, feeling a little resentful over being ‘bullied’ into conversation but not enough to risk the loss of the loaf.

If she noticed his annoyance, she ignored it utterly. “Ooh,” she said, rewarding him with the bread, then staring at him with increased interest. “You’re the guy who bought the chocolate box house then?”

“I beg your pardon?” 

She chuckled at his blank expression. “It’s what my friend, Dean, calls it. So cottagey and old-fashioned-looking it looks like an illustration on a cutesy box of chocolates. ‘Course, he’s also totally pissed that Missouri listed it for sale with a City realtor and closed the deal without letting any of us even know she was selling up. He and Missouri always had a verbal understanding when he bought the first house that she’d always give him first-refusal on the second. It’s a bit of a sore point with him, so don’t worry if he’s a bit stand-offish with you at first. He’ll get over it eventually. It’s not really your fault, is it? I mean, you didn’t know you were buying a house that had been promised to someone else.”

Castiel flinched slightly as the complete stranger assailed him with the huge information dump, then he winced as he joined the dots. “I presume this ‘Dean’ is the owner of the neighboring property?”

“Yup,” she agreed. “Missouri originally owned both houses. Sold one to Dean about five years ago. He only bought it on the assumption he’d eventually end up owing both. He used to do her shopping and look after her yard for her and everything, and then she just up and sold it out from under him. I guess she decided she needed big city money for the house, and he’s more hurt than mad with her but… still. Kinda awkward situation.”

Castiel frowned. The situation did seem a little unfair on this ‘Dean’ but, “Why would he need two houses anyway?”

“Oh, he doesn’t, really,” she shrugged. “I think he planned to gift it to his brother—not that Sam can’t afford his own place anyway, but that’s big brothers for you, isn’t it? Always crossing the line between looking out for you and sticking their nose far too deep into your business. It’s a fine line between care and control.”

Contemplating Gabriel’s well-meant but frequently irritating interference in his own life, Castiel could only nod in dumb agreement. The idea of permanently living next-door to Gabriel was vaguely horrifying. Gabriel’s constant demand for attention, for Castiel’s active participation in conversation, was exhausting. Although he’d be lost without his brother’s support, he had also felt inordinately relieved to drop him off at the airport. 

So, hopefully, perhaps this ‘Sam’ felt equally relieved that Missouri’s house had been sold to a stranger.

“But, honestly,” the girl continued. “I think Dean just didn’t like the idea of someone like you buying it as a second-home or, even worse, as a Holiday Let. That’s what happens around here a lot. The permanent population of Heron’s Cove used to be twice as large, but most properties sell for more than the locals can afford these days and they end up as vacation homes. It’s killing the town. No offence.”

“None taken,” Castiel replied, which was a lie because he did find her comment ‘someone like you’ unnecessarily rude. “Because I have purchased it as my primary residence. I am not ‘vacationing’,” he said, using air quotes for emphasis.

“Oh,” she said, and then surprised him with a far more friendly smile. “That’s even better then. New blood. We definitely need more of that around here.”

Castiel was glad Gabriel had already left, or he would have probably jumped on that comment and made a series of Salem’s Lot vampire quips. “Tell your friend, Dean, that I will make a point of listing the property locally when I sell it on,” he said, feeling a display of magnanimity at this point would be politically wise. He suspected in a town of 411 residents, news traveled swiftly. Despite his intention to keep to himself as much as possible, it would be impossible to be an island here. A certain amount of polite, if distant, interaction would be necessary. Whilst he had no illusions of ever being perceived as anything other than the glowery, unfriendly man living in a remote property on the outskirts of the town, he wished to avoid conflict at all costs. Best not to have the natives storming the castle with pitchforks and torches. Better, he felt, to make it clear his stay would be finite so they might as well at least tolerate his presence in the meantime.

Surprisingly, the server seemed disappointed rather than relieved. “So you aren’t planning to stay?”

“I anticipate living here for perhaps two years. I doubt I will remain longer,” he advised her carefully.

“Two years? Oh, if you’re staying that long, I can’t see you’ll ever leave. We’ll grow on you,” she said, with a wink. “We’ll find the right tin opener to prise open your armor eventually. My name’s Charlie. We’ll end up being friends sooner or later. Trust me.”

“Thank you,” he said stiffly. “But I have no wish to acquire ‘friends’.”

Charlie grinned unrepentantly. “You’ll find Heron’s Cove is a place where you’ll acquire what you need, rather than what you think you want. It’s a thing. We don’t question it. Stay here long enough and I guarantee we’ll peel you like an overripe banana.”

Castiel felt slightly flustered, wondering whether he should make it clear he was gay—just in the highly improbable case this was her attempt to flirt with him—but then decided it was highly unlikely to be the case and, anyway, he might end up tarred and feathered if the locals had strong opinions on the subject of homosexuality. After the fiasco of coming out to his mother, he really didn’t feel up to facing any more overt bigotry yet, and Heron’s Cove didn’t exactly strike him as the type of place that held Pride parades.

So he just reached for his wallet, deciding to move the whole unwanted and unexpected conversation back to one of simple commerce.

“Oh, put that away,” Charlie demanded firmly. “Call it a house-warming gift. It’s a tradition around here.”

“Your employer, Jack, may not appreciate the gesture,” he pointed out carefully. Becoming a party to ‘shoplifting’ would not be a good start to his life in Heron’s Cove.

She smirked. “It’s my shop.” Then, as he frowned in confusion, she added, “There’s been a Jack’s Bakery in Heron’s Cove since the town was founded. Folks round here don’t do well with change and it saved me the cost of replacing the sign. So it’s win/win really.”

“I see,” he said, grateful he hadn’t mentioned his sexuality. If the townsfolk were so set in their ways they couldn’t handle a new sign on the Bakers, he doubted they were progressive in any more meaningful respects either.

“Thank you for the bread,” he said, as she moved to serve the tourists who had finally chosen what they wanted to buy. He used the distraction to slip out of the door. As he returned to his car he glanced at the only other store still open so late, ‘Dexter’s Really Useful Shop’, and decided to take a closer look at the plants racked outside its front door. Although he fully intended to find a proper nursery within driving distance so he could make a start on his garden, he was also conscious of the need to get at least a full outline of his next book emailed to his agent before Crowley made good on his threat to come visit and tie him to his desk. So a few of Dexter’s plants in pots would at least give him something to inspire him until he had a chance to act upon the urge to tackle the garden properly.

His desire to have a garden far exceeded his knowledge about the subject. Although he’d grown up in a house with a yard worthy of gracing a magazine, his mother had hired a landscaping company to produce and maintain the effect she required. Castiel’s primary childhood memories were of being forbidden to even walk on the grass. After college, finances and convenience had dictated he rented an apartment rather than a house and, despite his moderate publishing success having nicely padded his bank balance, he was still living in that same apartment when Amelia’s eventual ultimatum that he committed to marrying her had led to his current situation.

But Castiel had an innocent faith that planting a garden couldn’t be that difficult. After all, considering the riot of wild flowers in his new front yard despite the house having been empty for three months it was self-evident that plants clearly wanted to grow and it was only early June. Still plenty of time to get summer bedding planted.

Dexter’s had a riot of brightly coloured dahlias in pots and he could imagine their cheerful heads bobbing happily outside the study window. Maybe he’d just start with a few of those. But then it occurred to him he didn’t even have tools yet. He’d need a spade and a fork and a trowel and… well, probably more than that but those were the only tools that immediately came to mind. Although, since this was a hardware store, he imagined Dexter would be able to sell him whatever basics he needed until he could go to a proper plant nursery.

Maybe he should start by just going inside and asking for some advice. He’d hate to start his gardening adventure by murdering some innocent flowers with either neglect or over abundant enthusiasm

That decided, he entered the store… and froze.

_One, one thousand; two, one thousand; three, one thousand; inhale, exhale._

Later he would say it was simply that he hadn’t known where to look first. If he had considered the plants outside to be a riot, he could only describe the inside of the store as being full-on tactical warfare. Dexter’s sold everything. Row upon row of shelves were stacked wall to ceiling. What didn’t fit on a shelf actually dangled from the ceiling. Things like dog beds, inflatable boats, plush toys, drying racks, saucepans, buckets and lampshades were all suspended from the beams overhead like insane party balloons for a Mad Hatter.

Good god, speaking of hats, there was a full selection—including sombreros, stetsons and even a deer-stalker—hanging in one shadowy corner. So, his fuddled brain told him, even Sherlock Holmes would be okay if he stumbled into Heron’s Cove in desperate need of new headwear.

Even the serving counter was stacked high with boxes full of items ranging from nails, nuts and washers to stationery items and candy bars. Behind the counter there were further shelves piled high with boxes full of a completely disordered mish-mash of items, the contents of which were marked with hand written notices in black sharpie pen, and a doorway that appeared to lead to a stockroom further crammed with miscellaneous everythings.

Sink plugs sat next to dog chews, batteries sat next to candles. Knitting wool was stacked next to rolls of tar paper. A box marked padlocks was next to a box stating ‘worming tablets’. There was an old coffee tin with a label on it marked Roof Tacks sitting alongside stacked tins of actual coffee. Beside them, there was a plastic crate marked Tennis Balls. There was a whole shelf filled with what looked like cold remedies, headache tablets and antacids, although in the middle of those items there was a cardboard box labelled Shotgun Cartridges.

The entire store looked like a bizarre combination of a Hoarder’s Den and Aladdin’s Cave. Although the items were all stacked relatively neatly and all clearly labelled, the disorganization made Castiel’s head throb at the assault on his near OCD-level need for precise order yet the writer in him marvelled at the visible truth that the store was crammed full of absolutely everything a customer might possibly consider ‘useful’ at some point or other.

Sure, he personally couldn’t imagine ever having a need for ‘Doll-house furniture’ or ‘Elbow-bends’ or ‘copper hose fixings’, let alone ‘birthday candles’ or ‘crochet hooks’, and did anyone still have a Betamax, let alone require a head-cleaning tape for it? But he could imagine that no matter what vague, weird, need someone might have, no one ever entered Dexter’s Really Useful Shop saying “I don’t suppose you have…” and left disappointed and empty handed.

None of the above, however, is why he froze.

He had a bizarre urge to say out loud “I don’t suppose you have a muscular male model type, with eyes the color of peridots and freckled skin and hair the color of toasted oats, who just happens to be interested in a boring, bespectacled also-male writer who rarely even remembers the day of the week let alone special days but desperately wants someone to find said writer’s inability to string two words together conversationally to be cute rather than mortifying.”

Instead, his inability to string more than two words together conversationally saved him that particular embarrassment and instead resulted in him just gaping like a beached fish at the Adonis behind the counter.

One, one thousand; two, one thousand; three, one thousand; inhale, exhale.

“Lookin’ for anything specific?” the green-eyed godlet asked, his voice husky, his teeth white and straight and as disgustingly perfect as the rest of him.

“You?” Castiel thought. 

_One, one thousand; two, one thousand; three, one thousand; inhale, exhale._

Don’t faint. Don’t pass out. You can do this,

_One, one thousand; two, one thousand; three, one thousand; inhale, exhale._

He swallowed a couple of times, cleared his throat, then managed to mumble “Just looking.”

“Feel free to look around all you like. Just holler if you see anything you want.”

“You. I want you,” Castiel thought but, fortunately all that actually came out of his mouth was a grunt of acknowledgement.

One, one thousand; two, one thousand; three, one thousand; inhale, exhale.

“And if you don’t see what you want, just ask. Chances are we have it somewhere,” the man continued. “Never failed a customer yet.”

“I just bet you haven’t,” Castiel’s brain agreed.

His mouth finally managed to string its designated two words together. Unfortunately ‘Hello there’, ‘Thank you’, ‘Good Evening’, all good suitable candidates failed to make the grade. Neither, more fortunately, did ‘You're gorgeous’ or the even more mortifying ‘Marry me’.

It was probably Gabriel’s influence that the two words he did manage to blurt out were “Needful Things.”

The green-eyed man startled for a moment, but then laughed out loud, the skin around his eyes crinkling in a way that showed he was somewhat older than Castiel had originally assumed.

Which was just as well since he didn’t really want to be having these kinds of thoughts over an underaged twink.

“I actually wanted to rename the store to that,” green-eyes admitted. “But my brother talked me out of it. He said it would scare the tourists.”

“This is your shop?”

“Yup. I’m De—”

The door burst open and the tallest man Castiel had ever seen walked in, all hair and teeth, saying, “Eileen says she loves you but if you don’t close up right now she’s giving your dinner to the dog.”

Then he saw Castiel, stopped, blushed and said, “Sorry, didn’t realize you still had a customer.”

“I’m just leaving,” Castiel said, glad for the excuse to escape before he made a total fool of himself.

He backed out of the still open front door then turned and almost ran for his car, telling himself his hurry was due to remembering he had a cooler full of groceries that needed to be deposited in his freezer. It had nothing at all to do with the fact that ‘Dexter’ was not only the living personification of everything Castiel hadn’t previously realized he needed but was also apparently in a relationship with someone named Eileen. 

Of course he was. 

No-one who looked like Dexter could possibly have been left on the shelf.

Eileen had obviously used her own two words more appropriately than insulting the guy’s business by suggesting it was the inspiration for a Stephen King horror story.

Thank god he had no actual need to return to the town at all.

###


	2. Chapter 2

Some time passed.

Castiel’s failure to keep track of exactly how much time was deliberate.

He never wore a watch, for instance, finding the idea of being chained to a fixed routine being little more than soul-sucking, modern slavery. He knew there were lots of professional writers who treated the process like a standard 9 to 5 job - Crowley had made a point of telling him so on several occasions - but despite Castiel frequently spending ten or twelve hour stretches at his keyboard, only stopping when prompted by hunger or neck ache or literally fingers too sore to keep typing, the idea of considering the crafting of his creations as a mere job just caused the words in his head to take offence and flee completely.

There was a clock in his car if he absolutely needed to arrive somewhere on time. He could also check the time and date easily enough on his computer. He simply chose not to. He even deliberately had turned off the display of the bottom toolbar so he couldn’t be distracted by the passage of time.

Mainly, he thought, because if he allowed something as nebulous as time to guide him he would probably never achieve anything at the keyboard at all.

Some days the words flowed out of him like water. A rushing tide that was dammed only by the clumsiness of his fingers in transposing the words flowing through his mind into actual text on his screen. Those particularly productive days inevitably created the need for hours of careful editing of typos afterwards but at least filled page after page with evidence of his labor.

Other days, the words were reluctant to come at all. His thoughts scattered like disobedient sheep, ideas half-formed then blew away like bubbles, and he wrestled so hard even to form a coherent sentence or remember an elusive perfect word that it felt as though Altzeimers had descended. Those times, when a full day of effort would barely reap a harvest of a page or two of coherent text, Castiel was glad he had no fixed record of exactly how much time he’d wasted just blankly staring out of the window thinking moronic things like ‘what’s a different word for said?’.

Then there were his research days. Which sounded good, except they began with him just wanting to double-check one tiny fact and then often he found himself accidentally disappearing down Google’s rabbit hole for hours. Those days inevitably ended with him flicking idly through Bored Panda looking at cute animal photos for probable—but thankfully not provable—hours.

Procrastination, he had discovered, was far less guilt-inspiring when its passage was not precisely measured by an actual ticking clock.

But, overall, he found that since moving to the house by the sea, his productive days had far outweighed his occasional wasted ones.

So it was only when he had finally wrestled his first draft into a cohesive structure with an actual beginning, middle and an end—even if the flesh on those bones was still somewhat skeletal—that he finally turned to the 1065 unread emails in his in-box.

Over 800 of them were spam—he had apparently inherited many millions from various deceased relatives in Nigeria—and nearly 200 were statements or similar from his bank and various service accounts. By the time he had deleted the former and moved the latter to their relevant folders, he was left with only 78 actual problem children.

41 were from Crowley. He deleted the first 40 without even bothering to check their contents since he knew from experience the whole chain of increasingly pissed-off verbiage would have been carried along with each new ‘re:’.

He flinched slightly as he opened the final mail. Crowley had reached the point of writing in solid Caps-lock and emoticons. They weren’t happy emoticons.

Oops.

He decided actually reading the rest of the irate communication would give him a headache, so he just hit reply, attached his completed file and, deciding ‘least said, soonest mended’, simply inserted a cheeky ‘thumbs-up’ sigil in the body of the mail. Gabriel would be so proud.

As Gabriel constantly pointed out, Crowley made a damned good living out of having C.J. Novak as a client so, although Castiel was grateful for the deal Crowley had signed on his behalf, he felt little guilt over the fact he apparently drove the agent witless by his habit of dropping out of touch completely for weeks or months at a time.

He did feel guilty over neglecting his brother, although Gabriel knew him well enough not to have spammed his inbox with increasingly irate demands that he replied to the earlier communications, as Crowley had done. Castiel always ignored mail, both electronic and paper, for weeks at a time. He got to it when he got to it, and no amount of further chivvying mail would hurry that process. If anything, it slowed it still further. The higher the stack of envelopes on his kitchen table and the higher the number of ‘unread’ mails in his in-box, the more anxious their contents would make him and so the longer Castiel would procrastinate over dealing with any of them.

Gabriel understood that quirk of his behavior, which was why there were just two emails from his brother. One dated the evening of his flight home, simpy confirming he’d landed safely. The second was written almost a month later, dated the 4th of July, which was...ahh… a week ago.

Which made sense now, Castiel thought, squirming uncomfortably at the realization.

A week earlier his neighbor—who had a predilection for loud music at the best of times but was located far enough away that Castiel usually found the constant hum a tolerable white noise rather than a distraction—had apparently had some kind of party at his house, involving even louder music, a bbq and fireworks.

Castiel hadn’t been invited.

Unsurprisingly, since he still hadn’t actually met this man ‘Dean’ despite living next door to him for… goodness… five whole weeks.

And, to be fair, that was possibly—okay, definitely—his own fault.

His front door had been knocked upon half a dozen times over the previous weeks and, given their remote location and the fact you could hear vehicles bouncing down the dirt track from several hundred yards away—it was pretty obviously always Dean who had done so. But each time it had happened had been a bad time. Somehow his neighbor always knocked during the middle of one of Castiel’s word tsunamis. The times when the words were gushing out of his head even faster than he could type; the times that he felt almost possessed by his muse. 

Castiel’s muse was a flighty, bi-polar bitch. She was sometimes so elusive he became convinced all previous literary success on his part had been sheer happenstance. He had simply been the particular monkey whose key-tangling fingers had accidentally churned out legible words.

Other times, she was a whip-wielding dominatrix who demanded his complete submission. Nothing short of his house actually burning down around his head would have pulled him from his desk at those particular moments. Possibly, not even that.

If Dean’s timing had been better, if he had come visiting during one of Castiel’s idle perusals of Bored Panda, then Castiel would have happily—well, perhaps not happily, considering the fiasco caused by him being polite to his last neighbor—but he would have opened the door and had the first awkward conversation with a stranger who apparently hated him simply because he’d bought the house in the first place.

Castiel winced as he considered Gabriel’s email. The date of Gabriel’s email.

It was possible that his neighbor now had a genuine reason for hating him.

Had he realized the significance of the date, it was probable he wouldn’t have called the local sheriff’s office at two in the morning to complain about the noise.

At the very least he would have gotten dressed, walked over to introduce himself and asked politely for the music to be turned down. But he’d been tired, a little migrainey, and had been worried approaching Dean directly might result in a violent confrontation given that people had been drinking and partying loudly outside the man’s house since mid-afternoon.

So, oops again.

He didn’t think he’d caused his neighbor any actual harm. Although a patrol car had rattled up the dirt track in response to his call and the party had wound down shortly afterwards, no one had gotten arrested or anything. In fact, although the houses were too far apart for him to be sure, Castiel was reasonably certain the sheriff had hung around for a drink or two after the music had been lowered to a more acceptable volume.

Still, he’d make a point of apologizing when the opportunity arose because manners maketh the man and, besides, he didn’t want to wake up one morning to find his tires slashed,

That resolved in his mind, he dealt with the few emails he couldn’t put off any longer then decided it was well past time for him to take a proper look at his garden and maybe wander up to his physical mailbox to add its contents to the growing pile on his table. He knew he really should look through the stack of paper, at least separate the flyers and spam from the actual letters, but handling email and spam mail on the same day just felt too soul-sucking. All his bills were paid by direct debit, his publisher used an agency to handle fan mail and none of his family except Gabriel even knew his new address, so none of the mail could be urgent anyway.

What he really wanted to do was make a start on his garden but it was probably too late now to plant any Summer flowers. He hadn’t meant to lock himself in his study for five solid weeks. He’d honestly been planning just to get his outline done, then take a break, make a start on the garden whilst story ideas percolated in the back of his head and then return to the actual ‘proper’ writing. But instead his often errant muse had decided to swoop in unexpectedly and had hung around with surprising persistence. Despite his occasional unproductive day, on the whole the latest book had flowed from his fingers as effortlessly as his very first.

Which was odd.

Book two had been a little harder than the first in the series. Books three and four had been a painful grind. Maybe that’s why he’d banished ‘time’ to try and pretend he was still writing out of personal preference, out of the joy of writing for its own sake, not simply toiling over a keyboard because he had a contract to complete and a deadline to hit.

Conversely, this one—the fifth book in the series—had poured out of his fingers as smoothly as silk.

Maybe it was the location. The soothing sight of the sea. The sometimes absolute quiet of near perfect privacy. The absence of Amelia.

He bit his lower lip. The thought felt mean but accurate. He hadn’t realized what a yoke their relationship had become until he was free of the weight of it. The guilt of it. The knowledge he had only managed to stay in the relationship at all because Amelia was a ‘good girl’, the type of girl whose religious convictions demanded a ring on her finger before she’d ‘consent’ to lie in his bed.

He wasn’t proud of himself to know he’d used her like that. That he’d always considered her a ‘safe’ girlfriend because she never asked for more than he was willing to give.

He had still been guilty of false-representation, hadn’t he?

He had implied an interest that didn’t exist.

Though he was perhaps being too hard on himself. He hadn’t been the one who had pursued the relationship. He hadn’t deliberately gone out to find someone to act as his beard and keep his mother off his back over his permanent single-status. He hadn’t even realized Amelia was interested in that kind of relationship. He’d thought they were just friends. He’d never had a friend before, so it wasn’t his fault he had totally misinterpreted the reason his female neighbor persistently visited him and then, gradually, managed to encourage him to leave his apartment in her company.

He thought they simply shared the same taste in coffee shops. He had apparently been dating her for well over a year before she made him aware of that fact by introducing him to someone as her ‘boyfriend’.

His fault then was in taking a further eight months to confess the misunderstanding. To admit he was gay.

Or at least he was pretty damned sure he was.

He hadn’t ever actually put his conviction into action. He’d never done so much as kiss another man. But it was pretty much inarguable that the thought of sleeping with Amelia had always left his stomach twisted in knots whereas the mere sight of someone like Dexter had left him feeling sick for a totally different reason.

Hunger. Anticipation. Desire. Those were the only appropriate words to describe the emotions that caused his stomach to churn and his palms to sweat and his heart to skip into arrhythmia whenever he thought about the shopkeeper.

Castiel had a growing list pinned to his fridge with a magnet. A shopping list filled with a myriad of odd and almost esoteric needs. One of these days, when he was sure he could return to the ‘Really Useful Shop’ without tripping over his own tongue due to the physical attractiveness of the probably married Dexter, Castiel was going to take that list and test whether the store really did stock everything.

He may, or may not, have wasted some hours on Amazon double-checking whether the items he had written down were even available at all. He wasn’t trying to deliberately catch Dexter out by requesting items that were impossible. Improbable was a fair enough challenge though, he decided.

Such as the humane mouse trap.

Because whilst he was determined not to continue to share his kitchen with the rodent that was raiding his cupboards and leaving nibbled packets and a trail of droppings in its wake, the idea of poison or a standard spring trap were simply unacceptable. Castiel would not murder the creature. He simply wanted to evict his unwelcome non-rent-paying tenant and relocate it elsewhere.

And the left-handed tin opener.

Because whilst Castiel was ambidextrous rather than left-handed, so didn’t actually need such a thing, it would be suitably irritating for Gabriel whenever he visited. Castiel thought his brother, who was the king of prank wars, would get a small kick out of Castiel attempting, even in so small a way, to return the favor.

The list did also include some genuine minor needs. A chain for the plug of the bathtub. A replacement handle for one of the kitchen cupboard drawers. A new cord for the lightswitch of the basement. A latch for the top section of the stable type back door. A battery for the door bell so he could ignore that, rather than the door knocker, whenever his neighbor called. A letter opener, in case he ever decided to deal with the growing paper mountain on his kitchen table rather than simply throwing the entirety in his fireplace.

And, perhaps most importantly, wild bird seed and dried cat food.

It was, he suspected, the last item on the list that would encourage him to change ‘one of these days’ into today. 

He’d first noticed the cat several weeks earlier. A tiny slip of a thing prowling around his back yard, an occasional flash of white and orange and black amongst the overgrown grass and neglected flowerbeds. He’d paid little attention at first, assuming the visitor belonged to the mysterious, angry, noisy Dean and had simply decided, as was a cat’s wont, that Castiel’s yard was part of its territory also.

But as the days had passed, Castiel became less certain the cat ever left his yard at all. On sunny days, it was always sprawled somewhere soaking in the sun’s rays. On drizzly days, he would spot it huddling under the eaves of an ancient old potting shed or sometimes inside the panes of the empty greenhouse.

And it wasn’t an attractive cat.

He knew he was guilty of making judgments over the character of someone he hadn’t even met but everything about the way Dean had modernized the exterior of his house, the way he kept his yard in a state of almost painfully ordered perfection, not to mention the glossy black classic car that gleamed in front of his garage, always perfectly waxed despite the fact Castiel had never seen the car actually used instead of Dean’s equally black and glossy truck, suggested the interior of the house was similar. Castiel imagined it was all magnolia and white interiors, with black leather and chrome furniture, an over large TV, a definitely state of the art music system since he’d already suffered its heavy bass and perhaps an artfully placed scatter rug for one splash of color in an otherwise monochrome world. He thought Dean probably had a modern kitchen, with black marble counters and black and chrome accessories and undoubtedly a stupidly expensive Keurig on the counter.

So, okay, he was a writer. He had an active imagination. He had fully visualized the interior of his neighbor’s house as being some kind of temple to macho bachelor minimalism.

If Dean had a pet—and, honestly, given how little time his neighbor spent at home at all, Castiel judged that highly unlikely—then it would be a designer pet. A Persian or a Ragdoll, perhaps. At the very least, it would be something color-coordinated.

Not a skinny little calico with a missing ear, a cloudy blind eye and only half a tail.

So he’d begun to wonder whether the cat had belonged to Ms. Mosley, whether she had simply abandoned it (and though that was a terrible thing to accuse an old lady of, her apparent behavior regarding the sale of the house didn’t paint her in a particularly good light, did it?) but the few times he’d opened the backdoor in invitation, the tiny cat had run away in sheer terror at the mere sight of him.

Whenever he put leftovers outside, far enough away from the house not to encourage more mice, the cat would wait for him to not only return to his house but until he actually closed and audibly locked the door before it would creep out of its hiding place to greedily snatch the food.

After several weeks of this behavior, of the cat gradually calming to his presence, Castiel reached the conclusion the cat was simply a feral stray. So he stopped actively attempting to befriend it, deciding it was just another wild thing living in his garden that would approach him in its own time or not at all, and decided he would continue to feed it in the same way as he put food out for the birds. Feeding both the cat and the birds mere scraps however wasn’t sustainable.

So a trip to Dexter’s couldn’t really be put off any longer.

###

Heron’s Cove was teeming with summer visitors. Castiel had to park at the far side of Gacy Street and walk the full length of the shopping parade to reach Dexter’s Really Useful Shop. He paused to look in the window of Ted’s Pie Palace and salivated at its display but the queue near the till was too long. After five weeks of solitary existence, even the thought of being pressed against so many people made his skin crawl uncomfortably. 

One, one thousand; two, one thousand; three, one thousand; inhale, exhale.

Perhaps he would see if the throng had eased on his return, he decided, and moved on towards the second-hand bookstore. It had baskets outside, filled with slightly battered paperbacks, all marked ‘$1’. A sign in the window exclaimed ‘50% off with any exchange’. 

Castiel found second-hand books both an irresistible lure and a source of sadness. He couldn’t understand how anyone could read a book and then just trade it in. For him books were like old friends, worlds he would revisit over and over like returning to vacation in a favourite place. So secondhand books always felt to him like faithful wives brutally discarded for the thrill of a younger mistress.

Even so, he expected he would return on another occasion to peruse the bookshelves inside in search of gems long out-of-print. To his personal shame, Castiel had given into the convenience of Kindle for new book purchases, loving the fact he could adjust the font size instead of depending on his reading glasses when his eyes were tired. But there was nothing like the feel and smell of a real book.

One basket was primarily filled with virtually pristine copies of the Da Vinci Code. He blushed slightly, when he also saw several of his own novels in the bargain baskets. He didn’t think he’d ever get over the thrill of seeing C.J. Novak on a dust cover, even when the sight was only evidence that someone had read and then discarded his work as something unworthy of a permanent place on a bookshelf. At some point they had obviously judged it worthy of its full cover price and, since that was the reason he’d been able to afford to buy the house near Heron’s Cove, it would be churlish of him to complain that they had treated his work like a dalliance rather than a long-term romance.

He couldn’t resist reaching into a basket and picking up a copy of his original novel ‘First Flight’. It was a second edition, the one that had been graced with a dedicated illustrated cover after the successful sale of the entire limited print first edition had convinced his publishers he was worthy of them investing in more than simple generic artwork.

“That’s one of my favorites,” a husky voice announced, as he fingered the novel. “I recommend it.”

He was so surprised he yelped and almost dropped the book. He turned to see Dexter, his stance relaxed but his horribly gorgeous face smiling a little shyly as though he’d blurted out the words without thinking and was now wary of being rudely rebuffed.

“Huh?” Castiel said, his mouth going dry and his entire mind going blank.

One, one thousand; two, one thousand; three, one thousand; inhale, exhale.

One, one thousand; two, one thousand; three, one thousand; inhale, exhale.

“That book. It’s good. First in a series. But each book works as a stand-alone too. ‘Sides, Jeff’s probably got a copy of the others somewhere. If not, I can lend them to you.” Dexter paused, and scratched the back of his neck a little awkwardly, “I mean, if you’d like. We don’t have a library in town so we all pretty much just use Jeff as a book-exchange but personally I kinda like to keep hold of my favorite books, so I can re-read ‘em again.”

Dexter’s rambling explanation gave Castiel time for his heart to stop thudding with shock and his mouth to remember how to form words.

“Like re-watching an old favorite movie?” he suggested quietly.

“Exactly,” Dexter beamed. “I mean I love movies too, and watch my favorites over and over, but I’m not a fan of watching movies of books I’ve already read. The casting never quite gels with my own imagination and so much underlying nuance gets lost. Movies always feel like abridged Reader’s Digest versions of the novels they’re based on.”

Castiel’s mouth dropped open slightly. To hear an echo of his own thoughts on the subject stated so clearly by the storekeeper confused him utterly.

Not because he was surprised Dexter was so articulate but because Castiel knew he was a little… different. He had little experience of meeting people—particularly drop-dead gorgeous popular people—who viewed the world through the same lens as he did. Perhaps sharing the same view of movies was a tiny level of mutual accordance but, frankly, Castiel had little experience of anyone other than his brother ever agreeing with him on any subject.

“Look, I know we got off to a bad start, but I’m willing to try again.” Dexter announced, and stuck his hand out expectantly.

Castiel blinked at the confusing statement. The storekeeper being abruptly summoned to return home for dinner had hardly been a ‘bad start’. Although his own awkward fleeing might have been perceived as him taking offence at what had happened, he supposed. He knew he had a horrible habit of reacting inappropriately in social situations. Perhaps leaving so abruptly had been terribly rude. So he hurriedly thrust his list into Dexter’s hand to prove there were no hard feelings.

The green-eyed man frowned uncomprehendingly at the paper thrust into his hand.

“I was on my way to your store,” Castiel explained earnestly.

Dexter still looked a little confused to be holding the note and it belatedly occurred to Castiel that perhaps he had been meant to shake the proffered hand rather than deposit something into it. Before he could apologize for his faux pas, the other man spoke.

“A humane mouse trap?” Dexter queried with a poorly concealed snort of laughter.

“I appear to have a field mouse living in my kitchen. I do not wish to harm it. I merely wish to evict it forthwith,” Castiel replied, stiffening defensively. He hadn’t expected the necessity to defend his purchase to the storekeeper. “I understand that humane traps merely catch the mouse completely unharmed so I can relocate it to where it belongs.”

As Dexter continued to stare at him blankly as though he was speaking a foreign language, he bristled slightly under the scrutiny of those gorgeous green eyes.

Perhaps he was being ‘odd’. He supposed his request probably did sound peculiar. And he regretted that between the note and its contents he had probably inadvertently demonstrated to Dexter that he was, as Gabriel often said, a bit away with the fairies. But he wasn’t ashamed of caring about the mouse’s welfare. If that made Dexter think less of him, then perhaps it merely proved the shopkeeper’s soul was less attractive than his face.

Which saddened him greatly, but not as much as the idea of murdering an innocent mouse.

So he stiffened his shoulders, instead of giving in to the cowardly desire to say ‘or any mousetrap whatsoever’ just to put a smile back on that pretty, pretty face. “If you cannot help me, I am sure that Amazon may assist,” he said instead, with a deliberately dismissive sneer.

Dexter’s arm shot out and Castiel flinched, convinced for a moment the walking advertisement for sin was about to punch him for his rudeness. Instead, Dexter grabbed hold of his arm, pressing a finger against his lips and looking up and down the street like he was checking for witnesses, “Never speak that name out loud,” he whispered, his tone one of dire warning. “It’s like the worst curse you could utter round these parts. It’s like saying ‘Candyman’, except legend has it if you say that word five times you’re likely to get decapitated by an insane delivery guy.”

“What?” Castiel demanded, totally bewildered by the progression of the conversation. Was this humor after all? He was pretty sure it was. He often misinterpreted social situations but there was something peculiarly familiar about Dexter’s behavior.

“They call it ‘Black Friday’ for a reason, you know,” Dean continued, totally straight-faced. “That’s why all use of the ‘company that cannot be named’ has been banned in Heron’s Cove. All the resultant blood and body-parts breach a local anti-littering by-law.”

Castiel decided that Dexter’s ‘sense of humor’ would probably give Gabriel a run for his money—but actually felt remarkably relieved to draw the comparison between Dexter and his brother. It gave him hope that Dexter’s apparent mockery was meant fondly rather than cruelly—so he just rolled his eyes as he would have if Gabriel were speaking and said, “Then can you sell me a humane trap to avoid such carnage and mayhem?”

By some miracle, his dry rejoinder hit exactly the right note and caused the green-eyed man to chuckle.

“Course I can,” Dexter replied, with a wink that suggested he was fully capable of supplying any desire Castiel might have. 

Eileen, Castiel reminded himself urgently. Don’t forget the existence of Eileen. 

And the dog.

And the potential of being tarred and feathered by homophobic locals.

“Though, speaking of by-laws,” Dexter continued, blithely unaware of Castiel’s internal monologue, “I’m legally obliged to conduct my business in a responsible manner and it would be criminally irresponsible of me not to ask whether you have fully considered the implications of your intended purchase.”

“What implications?” he asked suspiciously.

“Well, you claim it’s a field mouse so you are intending presumably to place it in a field after you catch it, right?”

“That is correct.”

“But since it lives in your kitchen, I would argue it is now a kitchen mouse. How on earth is a poor civilized, domesticated, kitchen mouse going to survive in a field?”

Castiel gaped at him.

Dexter shrugged. “Just sayin’. I mean, think about it. Poor thing’s gonna get lost, isn’t it? Eaten by a fox or something, probably. Can’t see what’s humane about that.”

Castiel had never been very good at reading people. He honestly didn’t know whether the disgustingly handsome Dexter was being serious now or was still pulling his leg but, sadly, his mind had flown immediately to visualize a scene of a tiny helpless mouse trembling in terror as an evil two-legged giant heartlessly dumped it in a remote field to perish. Perhaps the trap could wait until he had considered the situation further.

“Can you supply the other items on the list without offending your moral code?” he enquired stiffly.

“Course I can,” Dexter agreed cheerfully. “You gonna keep that book?”

Castiel opened his mouth to say ‘no’, since he had several pristine author copies already, then snapped his mouth shut since he didn’t want to explain why he had copies. 

“JEFF,” Dexter yelled through the doorway. “New guy’s takin’ a book, ‘Kay?” And tugged on Castiel’s arm to propel him down the street.

“I haven’t paid,” Castiel protested.

“First purchase in each store is always free to newbies. It’s a thing round here. Jody thinks it makes the town more friendly,” Dexter shrugged. “Bet you wished you’d chosen better than a single dollar-bargain-bin book now, huh?”

“Had I known, I definitely would have considered my list for your store more carefully,” Castiel replied primly, still a bit pissed about the mouse thing.

Dexter considered the paper in his hand, then snorted. “Yup, this won’t break the bank. Tell you what, I’ll let you add any one extra item of your choice.”

“Any item?”

“Anything not bolted down,” Dexter agreed cheerfully.

Castiel highly doubted ‘Eileen’ would approve of his first choice. After all, Dexter wasn’t bolted down, was he? Sure, Dexter’s sense of humor was more than a little suspect but Castiel wasn’t blind. 

But he sighed and said, “Entirely unnecessary,” since if he couldn’t have what he really wanted he saw little point in accepting some pointless substitute. “The items on the list will be more than sufficient, thank you.”

“Then leave the list with me and I’ll drop the stuff off later,” Dexter offered. “Saves you carrying it all back to your car.”

Castiel blinked at him in surprise. “I don’t want you to go out of your way,” he said.

Dexter looked at him oddly. “Um, hardly much bother to me, is it?”

“Well, if you’re sure,” Castiel agreed, not really wanting to carry bags of animal feed all the way back down the street. He supposed his house wasn’t that far from town. It did momentarily occur to him it was odd Dexter knew where he lived but, no, he swiftly reconsidered. He imagined with a population of only 411, the baker, Charlie, had probably described the new inhabitant of Missouri Moseley’s house to everyone by now.

“You gonna tell me your name?” Dexter asked.

“My name?”

“For the receipt,” Dexter suggested.

“Oh, of course, it’s Cas...” his voice trailed off mid-word as he realized saying Castiel Novak whilst clutching a novel written by C.J. Novak would probably be a bad thing.

“Okay, Cas. Catch ya later,” Dexter said, with a winning grin, then turned and entered his store before Castiel could correct the misunderstanding over his name.

###

The conversation had taken enough time for the queue in Ted’s Pie Palace to have halved. Plus, speaking to Dexter had acted like a shot, an inoculation easing him back into human interaction, so the idea of handling a small group of people felt less impossible than it had only a few minutes earlier.

Although he had been at pains to point out to Gabriel that it tended to be artists driven ‘round the bend’ by isolation, rather than novelists, Castiel wasn’t unaware of his own predilection to be reclusive. Nor of the fact that the longer he went without human company, the easier he found it to remain alone. Which even he knew wasn’t healthy.

So he made a deliberate effort to ignore the impulse to just rush back to his car and entered the pie shop instead. Immediately assailed by the delicious scents of buttery pastry and rich fillings, any final reservations on that decision were squashed by the rumbling of his own stomach. When he was on a writing roll, he ate for fuel not for pleasure, scarfing sandwiches, bags of chips, or anything that was quick and easy and usually able to be eaten one-handed so he could continue pecking words into the keyboard even as he refuelled.

But the divine smell of the pies abruptly reminded him that taste was also an important consideration.

Damn, he was hungry.

“Now you, Cher, look like someone who really would appreciate a good bite,” the bearded man behind the counter said, in a molasses rich voice that belonged in some smokey bayou.

“Huh?”

The man pushed a plate filled with various slivers of pie over the top of the glass counter. “Try before you buy,” the man said, encouraging him to take a piece. “A good maxim for pie and life, don’t you think?”

Castiel nodded, his mouth too filled with buttery, flakey goodness to actually reply.

“Cos, sometimes we think we want something sweet, but turns out we’d really prefer something savory. Maybe something sharp, or salty, or bitter. Hard to know what really satisfies without actually getting that taste on the tongue and tryin’ it out for size.”

Castiel frowned, uncertain whether the man was threatening him or flirting with him. Either seemed equally likely. There was no mistaking the deliberate leering innuendoes and yet the man’s eyes were flinty and his voice was a dangerous, if seductive, growl.

“Some palates are more discerning than others,” he suggested, his tone deliberately edging towards sharpness as he stiffened in instinctive awareness of some subtle danger from this man.

“Some palates are practically virginal though,’ the man said, his eyes glinting dangerously. “They need to be coaxed and teased, seduced into trying new taste sensations. Here, try the sour cherry next.”

“Too tart for me,” Castiel said, as the rich flavours burst on his tongue but set his teeth on edge.

“And now try this one,” the man said, shoving a tiny bite-size tartlet at him.

“Ooh,” Castiel said, as rich savoury tastes flooded his mouth. Complex layered flavours, the rich tang of a blue cheese, the bite of anchovies, the deep woody taste of mushrooms. “That’s really good.”

“Yeah, thought you’d be an Umami man,” the man said, staring at him speculatively. “Not a fan of sweet or sour, but not really looking for meaty either.”

“And do you consider Umami bad?” Castiel demanded suspiciously, unsure whether he’d just been insulted.

“Limiting,” the man said. “Take Dean… he’s got a very balanced palate. Some days he’s all about the sweet, fruity flavours. Other times, he prefers savory. Sometimes he likes nothing more than a big, fat steak pie. Likes some real meat in his mouth. He’s not someone who'd probably ever settle for having to choose just one flavour of pie for the rest of his life.”

So it was a warning.

Huh.

This big bearded Cajun was definitely warning him off his neighbor, the mysterious, noisy, angry Dean who was, it appeared, also bisexual if he was interpreting this odd conversation correctly. And, if the man serving him was telling the truth, occasionally inclined to sample the pie-man’s personal ‘meat’.

Since Castiel had never met Dean, and couldn’t imagine even liking him if he did—his taste in cars, windows and music did not suggest they had anything in common—the only interesting thing about this conversation—other than the delicious pie samples—was the fact the town clearly wasn’t homophobic after all.

And statistics lied.

Heron’s cove, population 411 (or was it 412 now?), apparently had a bare minimum of one gay man, one bi-man and a grumpy Cajun bear who at the very least appeared to be Dean-sexual.

“Here,” the man said, handing over two pie boxes. “The top one’s for you. The second one is salted caramel and sour apple. It’s one of those love it or hate it things. When you don’t know if you want sweet or salty or sour, have ‘em all in one mouthful. Dean loves it.”

Castiel stared at him blankly.

“The Apple pie is for Dean,” the man explained patiently. “Question is, do ya just leave it on his front porch or invite him over to share a slice? Personally, I’d go with door number two. Expand your horizons a little.” He winked suggestively.

“I don’t understand. Weren’t you just warning me off Dean?”

“Oh, Cher, I’m just trying to save you from an achy breaky heart. Think of your neighbor like one of these pies, a delicious occasional treat but not the kind of diet you could live on permanently without developing diabetes anyway.”

One, one thousand; two, one thousand; three, one thousand; inhale, exhale.

“Do you always offer unsolicited relationship advice to total strangers?”

“Only the ones with big, sad blue eyes and under-developed palates,” the man chuckled unrepentantly. “Sides, Charlie said you’re stayin’ a couple of years at least. Two years of you callin’ the cops every time Dean has a party is gonna get old real quick for everyone. So do yourself a favor, just invite him over, offer him a slice of your pie and get it over and done with.”

This, Castiel decided, was why living in a town with only four hundred people was a bad thing. Because he could walk into a store to buy a simple pie and be given a lecture on how it would be a good idea to offer his virginity to the local lothario who just happened to be his next door neighbor, apparently.

As Gabriel would say, What the ever-loving fuck?

“Thank you, Ted, for your totally unsolicited advice. I believe I don’t require any pie from you, today or ever.”

He firmly placed both pie boxes down on the counter, turned and furiously stalked towards the door.

“It’s Benny,” the man called after him.

“I… don’t… care,” Castiel snapped, and stormed out of the shop and back to his parked car.

He was so furious—and hungry, now his taste buds had been woken up by the delicious slivers of pie—that instead of turning around and driving home, he drove through the town and headed up the coast.

He drove through village after village, all far larger than Heron’s Cove which only made him further regret his decision to move to such a tiny, interfering place. How dare ‘Benny’ talk to him like that? Insert his unasked for, unwanted opinions into Castiel’s life?

Was that what it was all about, really? The Fourth of July party? Did everyone think Castiel had called the cops out of either spite or sexual frustration because his apparently irresistible neighbor had so far failed to invite Castiel to either his party or his bed?

So this Benny guy had offered him a free bribe to enable him to get himself a slice of Dean, plus a warning not to get emotionally invested?

Castiel wasn’t sure what upset him the most. The idea anyone thought he would be even tempted by such an appallingly ill-conceived idea. Or the fact that if Benny had given him Dexter’s favourite pie, he might have seriously considered the idea. 

Except, no, because Dexter was married to (or at least cohabiting with) some woman named Eileen. She cooked him proper meals. They had a dog. Maybe Castiel should get a dog.

Or at least dinner.

He pulled up at a roadside Mom and Pop place, and decided to eat his misery in the form of a huge plate of meatloaf, mashed potatoes and gravy. Who needed pie, anyway? Returning to town had been a mistake, one he had no intention of ever repeating.

Sod the local by-laws, not that he really believed Dexter had been telling him the truth. Amazon was going to become his new best friend.


	3. Chapter 3

Castiel’s resolve never to return to Heron’s Cove was tested as soon as he returned home that evening.

Night had already fallen and, as expected, he’d hit more potholes than he’d missed while traversing the poorly maintained dirt track in the dark. It was no wonder Dean invariably chose to use his truck rather than the classic car he kept parked on his drive. Of course, thinking of Dean inevitably reminded him of the conversation with Benny, and that removed the greater portion of the zen he’d managed to find within an island of meatloaf swimming in a sea of gravy and mash.

Then he’d almost brained himself as he’d tripped over a huge dark box on his even darker porch and remembered, belatedly, that Dexter had promised to drop off his purchases.

He kicked himself for forgetting. Hopefully his missing car had been sufficient proof that he’d been absent entirely, not simply hiding inside the house the same way he invariably did whenever his neighbor called upon him—although it wasn’t his fault that Dean’s timing had always been so unfortunate. So although he didn’t feel bad about his neighbor—much—he felt inordinately guilty about inadvertently slighting the storekeeper too. Dexter deserved more courtesy than arriving at a deserted property after being kind enough to travel out of his way to deliver items he wasn’t even charging for.

Even so, his need to apologize for the accidental slighting of Dexter was not the only reason he resolved to return to the town four days later. It wasn’t even the main reason.

His primary reason by then was the serial killer stalking his back yard.

Gabriel would undoubtedly find that to be hilarious.

Though, more accurately, the situation had been caused by his idiocy in not realizing that encouraging more birds into his garden with wild bird seed was a terrible idea when a furry four-legged death machine also prowled his overgrown flower beds. He hadn’t thought the situation through sufficiently. He’d imagined the cat was only hunting to feed itself and would stop as soon as it had a regular supply of proper kibble. He had failed, utterly, to consider the possibility that the battered, one-eared, one-eyed cat might simply be a supreme natural predator who delighted in slaughter for its own sake.

The only substantive difference he achieved by changing his feeding of the cat to the provision of regular kibble instead of occasional scraps was her decision to repay the favor by providing him with increasingly gory ‘gifts’ in return.

Castiel found himself torn between sheer horror at her behavior and reluctant respect for her prowess. The imbalance caused by the stump of her torn tail notwithstanding, the cat stalked through his yard with a leonine proficiency that both awed and appalled him. Every morning when he opened his back door, he was greeted with the sight of a decapitated mouse or a pile of bloodied feathers and severed bird legs. He wasn’t sure whether they were gifts or proud trophies—or even a rude suggestion the food he provided was inadequately tasty—but the sight of the carnage always filled him with terrible sadness.

And he had no option except to verbally praise the cat for the ‘gifts’, even though they made his stomach turn, because he did not wish to appear ungrateful for her apparent largesse nor discourage her from her apparent decision he was approachable after all.

There was nothing for it, he decided, after the fourth grisly offering.

His cat needed a collar and a bell.

And since Dexter’s sold pet products, it was a perfect excuse to revisit Heron’s Cove after all.

###

Sam rarely had the opportunity to sit behind the counter at Dexter’s but, on the extremely rare occasions Dean asked him to man the store, he enjoyed it.

He loved being a lawyer. He even enjoyed his daily commute into the city. The journey there let him get into his professional headspace. Sam Winchester the lawyer was an intimidating, no-nonsense man with a reputation for being fair but extremely tough. The journey home allowed him to unwind again, to leave the pressures and persona of his job behind and fully embrace his deliberately uncomplicated home life. Sam Winchester, the husband of the town’s resident artist Eileen, had a reputation for being a soft, overgrown puppy of a man with an easy smile and a generous nature.

So, now and then, the chance to just take the day off and stay in Heron’s Cove as that Sam was a true blessing.

There was something genuinely soul warming about the ethos of ‘Dexter’s Really Useful Shop’. The idea that solving someone’s minor niggles and needs might brighten everyone’s day.

In such a tiny town, the idea carried a surprising amount of truth. It was a living reversal of the story of the horseshoe nail. For instance, already that morning he had supplied a replacement microwave tripod arm to Sarah O’Hare. That tiny $3.99 piece of plastic would ensure that when Frank O’Hare inevitably returned home late that night, somewhat the worse for drink, his supper would be supplied piping hot. Frank would therefore not slip into a drunken rage with his wife over a cold dinner. Sarah would not be forced to lock herself in the bathroom—again—and phone Jody near midnight. Jody would not need to race out of the house to rescue her. Jody’s wife, Donna, would not decide to devour a pint of Ben and Jerry’s to console her loneliness only to spend the entire next day in bitter regret over the indulgence.

Tiny things mattered.

‘Needful things’ as Dean liked to say.

Dean, who was apparently trying to save the world one customer at a time.

Dean who was completely besotted by the weird, antisocial guy who had moved into Missouri’s house, but was, apparently, ‘as hot as hell’. Sam didn’t think being ‘hot’ compensated for being the kind of asshole who called the cops out on the 4th July to complain about noise but what did he know?

Dean, who had spent the last few days moping over his neighbor’s latest deliberate disappearing act and worrying he’d done or said something ’wrong’, as if Dean wasn’t the person regularly voted for as being ‘the nicest guy in town’.

Dean, who happened to be 30 miles away at the precise moment the elusive neighbor finally returned to Dexter’s.

Sam felt like face-palming.

“Oh,” the man said, coming to an abrupt halt in front of the counter and staring at him in confusion. Or was that annoyance?

“Cas, right?” Sam asked, with a—slightly forced—welcoming smile. “I’m Sam. Dean’s brother. We almost met before. How can I help you?”

Cas frowned at him, his brow wrinkling, and Sam finally understood what Dean had meant about his neighbor having piercing eyes and the general demeanor of someone who would rather chew glass than smile. He shuffled a little awkwardly under the intense stare, feeling uncomfortably as though he was being judged and found wanting.

“You are the brother of my neighbor ‘Dean’?” Cas asked, a little sharply. His expression suggested he had just inadvertently stepped into something distasteful.

Sam winced and wondered whether Cas had come to the store with another noise complaint or similar, rather than with an intent to purchase. Sam had lived with Dean before. He was well aware of his brother’s preference for loud rock music and, of course, everyone knew about Dean’s truncated 4th of July celebration. Maybe this Cas was just a serial complainer.

“Um, yeah,” he agreed carefully, reminding himself that Dexter’s ethos was to give someone what they needed. Even if what they ‘needed’ was an opportunity to vent about Dean.

“Where is Dexter today?” Cas demanded, apropos of nothing.

It was Sam’s turn to frown in complete confusion.

Cas’s glower deepened as the silence drew out uncomfortably between them. “Should I rephrase the question?”

Sam was uncertain whether Cas was being an asshole or was genuinely wondering whether he was a bit ‘simple’. 

“Um, I was just surprised you asked about his whereabouts. I imagine he’s in Bangor by now. There’s a farmer’s market there every other Thursday, and he has a stall there. But there’s no need for you to actually track him down. We stock all of his produce here too, if it’s local honey you’re after.”

“Honey?” Cas asked, his expression not changing but his eyes lighting up with greedy interest as though he’d seemingly been completely successfully distracted from whatever complaint he was about to make about Dean.

Sam decided to capitalize on the distraction. He dipped behind the counter and came back up clutching a selection of items. “I like the Lavender myself but the most popular is the Acacia. We’ve got raw cut comb or clear in both varieties. And these handmade beeswax candles too if that’s your kind of thing.”

The candles were dark gold, infused with a subtle honey aroma, molded to look like raw combs and wrapped in recycled cardboard sheathes. The honey jars were also unbelievably cute. Artfully hand-labelled, their necks wrapped with raffia bows and decorated with attached pewter bee charms.

“The presentation is charming,” Cas said, his tone surprisingly gentle considering the scowl on his face.

Sam beamed with pride. “Eileen designed the labels and the packaging,” he said. “She studied fine arts at Stanford. She’s incredibly talented. She should have pursued a real career, instead of getting married and moving to a tiny one-horse town like this. But she swears she’s happy and has no regrets. She has a small gallery near the harbor where she sells a lot of prints of her landscape paintings to the tourists but I think her work to support local crafts like this is what she takes particular joy in.”

“She is very talented,” Cas agreed, staring at the products as though he had unexpectedly struck gold. “I love honey,” he said, his tone softening even further. “I love bees. I would very much like to have a colony of my own one day. I used to live in a city apartment but now that I have a garden, I have been wondering whether perhaps having my own bee hive is a future possibility. I believe I should consider that potential most carefully before choosing which flowers to plant in my garden. I was considering the addition of borage to the wildflowers naturally thriving near my house.”

Which fully explained why Cas wanted to know where Dexter Cain was, Sam decided. He checked the time and winced. “Probably too late for you to catch him today. The market will be closing up before you get there. It opens at six and shuts well before lunch because the stalls always sell out early.”

“I understand why you stock the candles, but the honey seems like a peculiar item for a shop like this to sell,” Cas said. “I would have expected it to be stocked in one of the produce stores rather than here.”

“It’s ‘useful’,” Sam chuckled. “Seriously, though, it just makes sense. If someone wants Dexter Cain’s honey, this is the first place they naturally look. But during the off-season this turns into a one-stop-shop for everything anyway. Even if you just want a loaf of bread, you’ll come here. All the shopkeepers who can’t justify the cost of opening up their stores to just serve locals, sell their produce via Dexter’s instead. That way everyone still gets an income without all of the outlay involved in heating and lighting and staffing every store in town.”

“I can see how such a co-operative arrangement is both economically sensible and environmentally beneficial,” Cas agreed, with a nod of approval that seemed jarringly incongruous given his still scowling face. “I would like to take two of the candles and one of each variety of honey. I actually came in specifically to purchase a cat collar though. One with a bell.”

“No problem. Any particular color or type?”

Despite retaining his permanent scowl, Cas blushed slightly, “Something... pretty… if possible. She is not a conventionally attractive animal, I fear, and a plain collar might seem to reflect that I hold a less than favourable impression of her appearance. I do not wish her to feel that I have judged her unworthy of a nice collar. It is also imperative that it is a safety collar. I would not forgive myself if my effort to protect the local bird life resulted in her coming to any harm herself.”

Sam had to bite his lower lip. How could the man seem so sternly formal and yet so delightfully endearing at the same time? Now he began to see a little of what had thrown Dean so totally off his game. This Cas was awkward and frowny and grumpy but not unfriendly. Perhaps he’d made a mistake in judging him so harshly. 

Maybe the guy just had an unfortunate resting bitchface.

“Well, I expect she can’t help going crazy over the birds here if she used to live in a city apartment,” he offered.

“Oh, she didn’t move here with me. I appear to have inadvertently acquired her with the house. I thought Ms Moseley had abandoned her at first, but lately I have come to the conclusion she is simply a stray. I no longer believe her to be actually feral though. She has calmed enough to allow me to pet her, so I imagine at some point in her prior life she was a house-cat. I don’t believe it will be difficult to attach a collar now.”

“So how do you know she’s a she?” Sam asked curiously.

“She’s calico, therefore the odds are overwhelming.”

“Ah, of course,” Sam agreed, hoping his expression was neutral despite his urge to offer Cas a high-five. 

“Unfortunately she appears to have suffered a number of calamities in her life. She has lost an ear, an eye and much of her tail.”

Well, that removed even the slightest doubt of the cat’s identity. Sam turned away, stepping into the rear store room to find the collars before his amused grin gave him away. He knew he should speak up but, hell, if this didn’t get Cas and Dean finally talking to each other like grownups then he doubted anything would.

He deliberately chose half-a-dozen bright fuscia collars with unicorn sparkles and brought them back to the counter.

Cas looked vaguely horrified. “They are rather… loud,” he suggested carefully.

Sam thought the comment showed remarkable restraint. The collars were obnoxiously garish, though popular with certain pre-teen tourists. “As you said, you want her to feel ‘pretty’,” he wheedled. “And these have snap fastenings guaranteed to pop off if they get caught on anything. That’s why you need several of them. She’s bound to lose them, but they are priced accordingly. I can sell you six for $5.”

As he hoped, the stupidly cheap price did it. Sam would make up the difference himself to balance the till.

“She sounds like a survivor. A real Ripley,” Sam said, with a friendly smile, as he bagged the collars, candles and honey.

“Ripley?” Cas replied, with a confused frown.

“You know, from Aliens,” Sam explained. When the man continued to look bewildered, he added, “The kick-ass human woman who single-handedly wiped out all the alien monsters. You know? In the Alien Movies?”

Cas shook his head. “I am unfamiliar with them. I am also uncertain how you are equating birds with alien monsters. I do agree, however, that the cat is definitely ‘kick-ass’,” he said, pronouncing the words so carefully that Sam had the distinct impression that swearing was an unfamiliar concept to him.

No wonder Cas and his brother were struggling to find any common ground.

“You think Ripley would be a good name for her?” Cas asked, hesitantly, as he paid.

“Absolutely,” Sam agreed. That had been the cat’s name in Sam’s personal head-canon for years. He felt a surprising amount of satisfaction in finally winning at least that much of the ongoing argument with his brother.

Cas offered him an awkward quirk of his mouth that possibly was intended to be a smile, then picked up his items and left the store.

The bell over the door had barely ceased jangling when the door burst open again and Dean burst in looking out of breath as though he had run all the way from wherever he’d parked his truck. “Was that Cas I just saw leaving?” he asked.

“Maybe if you’d run after him, instead of running in here, you’d know the answer yourself.”

“Bitch,” Dean snapped.

“Jerk.”

“Fuck. I never leave this damned store. What are the odds of him finally returning on the one day I had to come in late?”

“So go after him. He probably hasn’t reached his car yet,” Sam suggested, though he knew Dean wouldn’t.

Dean rubbed his neck, looking torn. “Did he, um, ask where I was?” he asked, his tone aiming for nonchalant but missing by a mile.

“Nope,” Sam admitted honestly. “Ironically, he was actually looking for Cain. Said something about bees. I sold him some candles and honey though and he seemed happy enough.”

“That was all he wanted?” Dean asked, looking disappointed.

“Yup,” Sam lied, not wanting to ruin the ‘surprise’.

“I just can’t figure him out,” Dean grumbled. “Why does he work so hard to avoid me at home, yet just waltz into the store like he has no issue with me at all?”

“Maybe it’s nothing to do with you,” Sam suggested, giving the situation some genuine consideration. “He seems friendly enough, once you get past his initial reticence. A bit formal still, maybe, but friendly despite his frown. Maybe he’s a hoarder or a recluse or something. Perhaps he bought a remote house specifically to avoid having visitors. Some people just can’t handle the idea of people entering their private spaces.”

Dean looked skeptically around the shop. “I don’t think it’s Cas with the hoarding problem,” he snorted. 

Sam chuckled. “I’ll give you that,” he agreed, “though I’m serious about Cas probably having a need for privacy. Maybe you continually encroaching on his property is intimidating him, despite him being willing to be friendly on his own terms. I think if you back off, he’s more likely to approach you himself. You’re back earlier than I expected. Is Cain okay?”

The subject change worked as a perfect distraction. Dean appeared to forget about Cas completely. “He arrived to take over around nine. I tried to convince him to let me close up for him too but you know how stubborn he can be. At least taking down an empty stall is easier than setting up a full one. By the time I left, he had barely anything left to sell anyway. He asked me to let Eileen know the new jar designs are a real hit with the tourists.”

“She’ll be so pleased. I know she was nervous about suggesting the packaging would work better if it looked less professional. Maybe this will give her the confidence to push forward with convincing all the local crafters to use sustainable packaging and hand-written labels. But what about Cain’s health? Does he look any better?”

“Honestly? He looks worse. I think the chemo is affecting him worse than the cancer. He’s exhausted. It’s hardly surprising he can’t manage the early mornings anymore but he refuses to either give up the market or hire some permanent help.”

“I think it was hard enough for him to sell you this store,” Sam said. “Giving up his bees too would be more than he could handle.”

“They’re just supposed to be his retirement hobby. If I’d known he’d just swap this business for creating another one, I would never have agreed to take the store off his hands.”

Sam chuckled, “Nonsense, you love Dexter’s. You’re the only person who ever truly understood what the store was about. Cain wouldn’t have sold it to anyone else.”

Dean flushed but stopped arguing the point.

Dean embodied Dexter’s. He’d slipped so easily into Cain’s shoes that there was no one in town who didn’t mutter that maybe their mother had cuckolded John Winchester with Dexter Cain three decades earlier.

Maybe she had, Sam thought, because there was very little of their late father in Dean—and Sam didn’t mean that as a criticism. 

###

“What the fuck do you mean, she’s not coming back?”

Jody Mills winced but shrugged a shoulder. “You know she’s been struggling the last few years and after spending Christmas near her family, she’s decided to buy a place near them rather than return here. She’s buying some kind of assisted living condo.”

“Damn, I’ll miss her and the timing isn’t great. I always thought I’d have longer to save up but, no problem, I’ll talk to the bank. I guess she needs the sale to go through quickly, huh? I should be able to use the shop as collateral to borrow the balance.”

Jody winced again. “I know you always planned to eventually buy Missouri’s house for Sam, but she knew you didn’t want it yet. She says Sam and Eileen are happy in their apartment and won’t choose to leave it until they have children. She didn’t want you overextending yourself to buy a house that would stand empty. So, um, she’s sold it to someone else.”

And that, in a nutshell, had been the conversation that had begun this whole nightmare which had now escalated to a new level of fucked-up.

Because the day after Dean had decided not to chase after Cas in town, Atticat Finch had returned home wearing a collar.

A goddamned pink collar.

With sparkles.

It looked suspiciously like one of the disgusting things Dexter’s stocked to sell to tourists with more money than sense.

He was SO going to kick Sam’s ass. Cas had just been buying honey, huh? Sure, Sam, and sell me a bridge too while you’re on a roll.

His cat was wearing a collar and a bell and one of the little bee charms from Cain’s honey jars which was… well, okay, that was cute but Atticat was not a cute cat. He was a grizzled warrior. A hero. A survivor of hellish unspeakable battles against fiendish foes.

Or at least Dean assumed as much, from the evidence of his missing ear, ruined eye and shortened tail. He’d never actually managed to wrestle the cat into a basket to get it to a vet to get a better diagnosis of the cause of the cat’s various scars and injuries. His two attempts to do so had resulted in nothing more than a tetanus jab for himself and a hell of a lot of hydrocortisone ointment.

He’d never even tried to collar the cat… cats didn’t need clothes… and he sure as hell hadn’t ever wanted to bell him.

Dean and Atticat had lived in peaceful naked harmony for several years, ever since the battered cat had turned up unexpectedly one day, sitting on his doorstep like a much-wounded soldier returning home from a long campaign, and had demanded shelter and sustenance.

Fortunately, in view of his own allergies, Atticat had never actually chosen to move in to Dean’s house. He was too wary and independent to be a house cat, so Dean had fixed him up a well-insulated shelter next to his garage, with its own private cat flap and a raised bed for winter warmth and, except for keeping bowls of water and kibble topped up, he had respected the animal’s independence—his allergies had appreciated the fact the cat didn’t seem to want petting or lap sitting—and he had applauded its habit of prowling around both his garden and Missouri’s supplementing its diet with mice, birds and once even an actual goddamned rabbit.

The request for a humane mouse trap should have clued him in, of course.

Cas, for all his big blue eyes and disgustingly sexy bed hair and a body that ought to come with a goddamned government warning label… fuck the way those thighs strained a pair of jeans ought to be illegal … was not only a cruel and ignorant tease but he was a goddamned menace.

Atticat Finch, proud killer of all birds mocking or other, had been belled by Dean’s uptight, cop-calling, party-ending, pie-refusing, ignorant, anti-social bastard of an unwanted neighbor.

It took more self-control than he even knew he possessed not to march the couple hundred feet over to Cas’s front door, hammer on the knocker, lean on the bell that had a new battery because he had provided it, and refuse to leave until that infuriating bastard actually opened up and explained himself.

But for all his rage, even more overwhelming was his fear that Cas would still simply refuse to answer no matter how much of a nuisance he made of himself. Hell, Cas would probably just call Jody to arrest his ass for real this time. Despite his concerted effort to always appear cocky and confident, Dean was becoming increasingly wounded by each and every rejection of his overtures and although he wore his scars on the inside, rather than visibly like Atticat, the inflicting of the wounds was no less painful.

He’d tried.

He’d done everything he could to make peace with his neighbor—even despite his totally valid resentment that he even had a neighbor.

Dean had honestly thought that day in town, nearly a week ago, had been the breakthrough he’d been trying to achieve ever since Charlie had told him the unwanted neighbour he’d been determined to ignore was one and the same as the drop-dead gorgeous stranger who had come into his shop one evening only to be chased off by Sam arriving to remind him he was supposed to be having dinner with his brother and sister-in-law.

For five goddamned weeks Dean had tried knocking on his neighbor’s door, knowing the guy was deliberately ignoring him but still forcing himself to try, at least once a week, to start a conversation.

He’d even knocked twice the week before his party, wanting to invite him to at least meet other people since Dean was actually capable of catching a clue. Clearly he himself was obviously considered beneath contempt but disliking Dean didn’t mean the guy had to be an actual hermit. Dean wasn’t that petty. So he’d knocked twice that week and, when that had failed, he’d actually penned a careful, polite invitation and stuck it in the guy’s mailbox.

Cas’s only response had been to call the cops on him for noise pollution.

Jody, despite laughing her head off and accepting a couple of drinks, had actually fined him for breaking a town noise ordinance. Only $50 but the incident had stung regardless, mainly because the Sheriff (and Mayor) had made a point of telling everyone about it at the next town meeting—another written invitation Cas had ignored—and so not only was more than half the town laughing at Dean but everyone was deep in his business and interfering bastards like Benny and Charlie were all in his face about the fact that Cas was so clearly ‘Dean’s type’, that the whole thing was becoming pretty unbearable.

But then he’d unexpectedly bumped into Cas in town and… he’d actually thought the meeting had gone well. The blue-eyed demigod had seemed dorkishly awkward, rather than deliberately stand-offish. Dean had managed to convince himself that his new neighbor was just painfully shy. Cas had taken the book he’d recommended. Cas had given him his list. Hell, Cas had given him his name. Dean had honestly thought Cas had enjoyed his gentle teasing over the mousetrap and he had driven home that night, his truck full of everything on Cas’s list—including a humane mouse trap just to prove he hadn’t been serious—and a few other odds and ends he’d thought might be ‘useful’, only to find Cas’s house in darkness and his car missing.

He’d left the stuff on Cas’s doorstop ( and, yep, the cat food should have been a clue that Cas was not only a house thief but a cat thief ) and hadn’t seen his neighbor since.

His car was in his driveway, had been there since later that same evening, but Cas was back to ignoring his doorbell and avoiding Dean entirely.

Perhaps Dean wouldn’t have taken the rejection so personally, had Benny not told him that Cas had point-blank refused to deliver a pie to his house on the very day Dean had so eagerly dropped off Cas’s own list of ‘needful things’.

So that was pretty self-explanatory, wasn’t it?

Cas had met him twice and had obviously judged that to be twice too often.

Maybe he’d only visited the store on the one day Sam was manning it specifically so he could avoid Dean.

Even if both Charlie and Benny’s gaydar wasn’t faulty, even if—and this had been Dean’s favorite, if somewhat desperate, theory—Missouri hadn’t sold the house out from under him out of unexpected spite but had instead deliberately sought to find him a suitable boyfriend on the Mountain and Mohammed principle, then old Ms. Moseley’s claims of psychic abilities were totally bogus because she couldn’t have found someone who disliked Dean more if she’d tried.

Though that wasn’t Missouri’s fault.

He knew he was popular and well-liked in the town. He wasn’t feeling the need to wander around with an emo-face bemoaning the fact that no-one understood him. He knew he was attractive and friendly and personable. But Dean also knew he wasn’t anybody’s idea of long term partner material

He was everybody’s idea of a good time, but in the Snog/Marry/Avoid game he was firmly placed in the fuck and forget category. Maybe that was why Cas intrigued him so much. He was the only person who had immediately thrown him into ‘Avoid’ rather than ‘Snog’. That alone gave Cas novelty value.

Though maybe he’d heard about Dean’s totally, well somewhat, unfair reputation as the town bike.

Maybe he wanted to be one of the few who could proudly claim they’d never even taken a ride.

And so Dean had reluctantly accepted Cas would continue to treat him like he was a plague carrier, and had even accepted the fault lay at his own door—because the only difference between Cas’s behavior and, say, Lisa’s was that he’d given Dean the elbow even before he’d let Dean fail to successfully date him—but stealing his goddamned cat was a declaration of open warfare.

Dean lured Atticat over with a handful of cat treats—refusing to consider the fact it had taken over five months before the cat had let him close enough to touch—and popped the tab on the collar, causing it to drop with a clatter on the floor. It was a safety collar—which figured—one actually designed to just fall off and be lost if it got snagged on a branch or similar.

He left the cat eating the treats, put the collar in a kitchen drawer and smirked with satisfaction. He imagined Cas—the cat thief—would maybe have a spare collar or two, but it wouldn’t take long for him to wise up and leave Atticat in peace. 

Or he’d be forced to return to Dexter’s to purchase more collars and Dean would damned well look forward to that conversation.

###

“Do you think the sparkly pink collars are some passive aggressive anti-gay slur?” Dean demanded. He now had four of them, which represented the passage of thirteen entire days, since Atticat wasn’t being particularly co-operative with his attempts to remove the latest collars. The little bastard kept running away now every time Dean tried to pop the safety tab.

“I’d be more likely to suggest the opposite. That Cas is simply making the point that he likes pink,” Sam replied, looking slightly shifty, “but I think it’s actually just simple gender bias.”

“Lots of girls do like pink,” Eileen agreed, as she cleared and stacked their dinner plates. “Like me. I love pink and I am sick of having to apologize for it to the feminist-Stazi.”

“Pink was traditionally considered a male color anyway,” Sam said. “A lighter version of red, which was also a male color. It didn’t get associated with girls at all until the 1950’s.”

“So not the point, Einstein,” Dean grumbled, even as he snatched the dirty plates and marched them to the dishwasher himself. He was always grateful to be invited over for a home-cooked meal but drew the line at letting Eileen cook and clean-up.

“No, the point is, as I have told you before on numerous occasions, Atticat is female and Cas is merely acknowledging that fact,” Sam said, when Dean returned to the table.

“Hush your lying mouth,” Dean snarled. “Atticat Finch is male.”

“She’s calico, Dean,” Sam pointed out. “So she’s a she.”

It was theoretically possible for a calico to be male. The odds were 2999-1 against, though, according to google—he’d checked—so Dean preferred to argue the cat wasn’t calico at all.

“He’s ginger. He’s just old and going gray. It’s a salt and pepper thing.”

“She’s primarily white with ginger and black patches,” Sam countered.

“He’s got poliosis,” Dean said.

Sam actually looked impressed with that particular argument for a moment before shaking his head, almost reluctantly, and saying, “Good theory but it doesn’t work like that in cats. They don’t go gray in patches.”

“He’s Dean’s cat. If he believes Atticat is a ginger tom, then that’s what he is,” Eileen interrupted firmly, with a repressive frown towards her husband. 

Dean smirked. He rarely won an argument with Sam but Sam never won an argument with Eileen. So he wasn’t surprised that Sam immediately moved the conversation past Atticat’s sexual identity to the actual meat of the matter.

“Look, regardless of whatever damned color or sex the cat is, the point is that obviously Cas doesn’t realize the cat is yours,” Sam sighed. “Why don’t you save both of you some grief by simply putting your own collar on the cat to prove it isn’t a stray? Currently, Cas probably just thinks the cat is losing them in bushes. Put a nice black macho collar on your cat, so he realises Mr. Finch belongs to you?”

“Or, I dunno, try talking to him like you’re both grown-ass men?” Eileen muttered.

“He never answers his door, and I refuse to buy into the idea of making cats wear slave collars. It’s undignified.”

Dean’s phone pinged with an incoming text. 

He frowned at the display and made a phone call.

“What’s up?” he asked, his tone a lot softer.

“Hey, Dex-lite, I didn’t expect you to call me back immediately. I know you’re at Sam’s.”

“It’s no problem. I’m waiting on pie,” he said. “I’ve got a moment.”

“Could you do me a huge favor? Could you open up the stall for me again tomorrow morning? I can take over by nine.”

“Sure, no problem,” Dean agreed easily, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He hung up.

“Who was that?” Eileen asked, as she brought the pie to the table.

“Cain. Asking me to set up his market stall again tomorrow.”

“Do you want me to look after Dexter’s?” Sam offered.

“Nah, I’ll just open up late if I get held up in Bangor again. Wouldn’t want to run the risk of you selling Cas any more collars for my cat.”

Sam flushed.

Ha, busted, Dean thought. 

“Lots of people have cats. How was I supposed to know the collars were for your cat?” Sam argued weakly.

“Because I know you, Sam. You interrogate everyone like they’re on a witness stand and Cas is painfully honest. There’s no way, under your undoubted cross examination, he didn’t say this ‘stray’ cat was missing an ear, an eye and half its tail,” Dean said dryly.

“Facts that would be indicative but not conclusive. Could simply have been coincidental.”

“A law degree from Stanford and that’s your best argument? What the hell did I pay your student loans for?”

“For me to be able to say, uti possidetis, ita possideatis.”

“The fuck?”

“May you continue to possess such as you do possess, or in layman’s terms, possession is nine-tenths of the law. Cas has taken possession of the cat, Dean. My understanding is he has renamed her Ripley. So your move. What are you going to do about it?”

“I bet you think this is funny. Why the hell didn’t you just tell him Atticat is my cat?”

“Honestly? I thought it would break the ice between you two,” Sam admitted, with a sigh. “I thought sharing the cat would bring you both together. That it would end up being a cute story to tell your kids or something.”

Dean boggled at him, completely lost for words for a moment. Then he shook his head. “You told me to stop banging on his door,” he argued. “You said he was a reclusive hoarder with possible mental health issues.”

“He clearly doesn’t have a problem with interaction, just with having his home invaded. If you put a collar on the cat yourself, Cas will come bang on your door, “ Sam argued. “Problem solved.”

“I am not collaring the damned cat.”

“Sam’s enthusiasm for yenta-ing is only exceeded by his complete lack of common sense,” Eileen sighed. “Dean, I suggest you simply write this Cas a note explaining that the cat is not a stray. I am sure he never intended to overstep or take ‘possession’. Even you need to admit that Atticat looks in need of rescue. Invite Cas to come over to your house to discuss the situation civilly.”

Dean looked mullish.

She arched a brow. “Do I need to drive over there and speak to him myself?”

“What part of he doesn’t answer his door didn’t you understand?”

“It’s Heron Cove, Dean. I highly doubt he ever locks his back door. What’s he going to do? Yell at the deaf woman?” she smirked. 

Dean glowered at her and began contemplating the purchase of a studded black cat collar after all. Something that would make Atticat look like a mean little miniature Hell's Angel.

Surely it wouldn’t be beneath Mr Finch’s dignity to wear it for one day.

###

To his intense shame, Castiel had spent an entire fortnight struggling against the impulse to drive to Heron Cove’s harbor to visit Eileen Cain’s gallery.

He told himself he was just fascinated to discover more examples of her work. The simplicity of the black and white labels was deceptive. The skill of the hand-drawn bees and flowers forming a border for her pretty script was undeniable. He was genuinely intrigued to see that talent demonstrated in full-color art.

But the truth was, he just wanted to see the ‘competition’.

He thought that meeting Dexter’s wife in the flesh, seeing for himself that she was gorgeous and talented and sweet-natured ( because, honestly, how could she have snagged Dexter’s ring on her finger if she wasn’t all of the above?) would allow him to finally stop drifting off into pointless daydreams about the storekeeper instead of working on fleshing out his book.

Yet he wasn’t hurting anyone with his private fantasies, was he? Seeing Eileen would shatter his pointless but harmless daydreams and surely it didn’t matter whether he found Dexter addictively attractive as long as he didn’t ever act on his feelings? As long as he never did or said anything to reveal his embarrassing crush to anyone—particularly Dexter himself—there was absolutely no reason to torture himself by meeting Eileen.

Because, honestly, if Dexter was the kind of man who could be lured away from a committed relationship—as highly unlikely as that situation was anyway—then Castiel would lose interest in him entirely. If Dexter was just another ‘Dean’, then Castiel wanted no part of him.

But looking without intention of touching was valid, wasn’t it?

It was no different from having a celebrity crush. Now and then, his publishers passed on particularly touching copies of fan mail so he knew, unlikely as it seemed, that even he had some loyal fans who fantasized about him in romantic ways even though he’d never permitted the use of his photograph for publicity. He found such expressions of interest sweet and charming and flattering even, but only because of the safety of his anonymity. The fact that he would never have to actually face a cringeworthy situation of having to extract himself awkwardly from some complete stranger’s verbal expression of inappropriate interest.

It was that same reasoning, the knowledge he would never be so thoughtlessly crass as to put Dexter in that position himself, combined with his deliberate avoidance of the friendly but rather too talkative ‘Sam’, that led to Castiel’s decision to drive to Bangor to visit the bi-monthly Farmer’s Market.

Since his larder was pretty bare he was well overdue to shop for provisions anyway, and buying some fresh organic produce was an irresistible idea. The fact he was reasonably certain Dexter would be there, manning a stall, was just a happy coincidence.

Castiel wasn’t sure who he was trying to fool with that argument, but it allowed him to drive to the market, arriving shortly after 8am, and find his way to the stall signposted ‘Bee Indulgent’.

It was only when he saw the sign itself, recognising the careful calligraphy and the familiar dancing bees as Eileen’s skilled handiwork, that he froze and wondered what the hell he was doing there. 

The man, the gorgeous green-eyed man with hair the colour of his artful beeswax candles, belonged to Eileen.

This was not a harmless crush.

This was a totally inappropriate and distasteful crush. This was him treating Dexter as though he was nothing more than an object of desire. This was also him setting himself up to crash and burn. He'd end up with a broken heart even if he managed to avoid a broken nose because it would be impossible to keep gravitating towards Dexter, like a moth to a flame, without one or both of them ending up singed.

His cheeks flared with color as he abruptly realized he had already stepped so far out of the realms of acceptable behavior that he was totally ashamed of himself.

One, one thousand; two, one thousand; three, one thousand; inhale, exhale.

He began to back away, praying desperately for the crowd to swallow him before Dexter noticed he was…

“Cas?”

The single word sounded both shocked and angry.

He closed his eyes. It was too late to run away without compounding the problem further. He had no choice now except to step forward and face the music.

###

Dean was wondering whether he could convince Donna to take over running Dexter’s every other Thursday morning so he could offer to run the stall for Cain permanently. 

Cain might refuse that idea but at the very least Dean could offer to set the stall up permanently even after Cain finished his chemotherapy. Boxes filled with jars of honey and candles were heavy. Not to mention the huge urn Cain used to supply free honey-sweetened tea to encourage sales. Everything was far too heavy to be lugged around by any man in his late sixties, regardless of his state of health.

He knew Cain was a proud man, though. One who struggled to ask for help even now, when he really needed it. So Dean was going to have to make a big deal over how much he enjoyed manning the market stall, even though the truth was he found it far less satisfying than running his shop. The stall was all about supplying indulgences rather than needs. The sales didn’t feed his soul the same way as the tiny thrill of finding exactly the perfect item to make someone’s life a little better.

But making Cain’s life a little better was more than enough payoff to justify a few hours of his time twice a month, so if he had to fake a little pleasure in the selling of honey to gain Cain’s cooperation then that was doable.

He was so busy practicing his smile on Cain’s customers that he forgot entirely about his irritation over Atticat Finch until he finished serving someone, looked up into the crowd and saw the face of his cat-thieving nemesis staring right back at him.

“Cas?” he barked in surprise, his tone more than a little harsh.

He wasn’t sure how it was possible for someone to both flush and grow pale simultaneously, but Cas did. His gorgeous blue eyes went wide with alarm, his cheeks turned as pink as the hated cat collars, but the rest of his face seemed to drain of color completely as he looked around himself like a rabbit wondering which way to flee.

Woah.

Dean felt his own cheeks flushing with shame. He hadn’t meant to scare the man. He sometimes forgot how big, how buff, he was. How easily he could seem as intimidating as his father had been. He had lived his whole life endeavoring to never be that man. Dean was not a bully. Both he and Sam had fallen far from that particular tree.

He was impressed that after that visible moment of obvious terror, Cas firmed his shoulders and took a step forward anyway, clearly prepared to face Dean’s wrath even if the poor bastard probably had no idea of how he had earned it.

Which caused Dean to feel even worse.

The whole situation was Sam’s fault anyway, wasn’t it? If his damned brother had said Atticat belonged to Dean, poor Cas wouldn’t have bought the collars in the first place.

Hell, pink wasn’t that bad a color anyway and maybe Atticat was the one thing Cas needed. Would it really hurt Dean to share the cat?

So he deliberately turned his frown upside down and offered Cas a blinding smile.

Instead of looking relieved, Cas stumbled, halted and color infused his cheeks once more.

“Hey, you okay, Cas? You look a bit flushed. Come sit down a moment. Grab a drink.”

Looking shell-shocked, Cas allowed himself to be slowly lured towards the back of the stall—even though Dean was half—convinced he would still bolt if given the chance, so he didn’t give the man the opportunity. He half helped, half forced, Cas to take a seat behind the counter and thrust a recycled paper cup full of hot sweet tea into his hands.

“Drink that, Buddy. I hate tea myself but it’s supposed to be good for you.”

Cas took several careful sips, then said, “I am perfectly fine. I was just a little startled, perhaps.”

Maybe it hadn’t been his fault, Dean thought with considerable relief. Perhaps it had been the crowd causing Cas’s panic, he decided. That would make sense. The guy was a bit of a hermit, after all. A busy farmer’s market was probably the worst kind of environment for someone who was by nature a loner. 

But, just in case, he definitely wouldn’t bring up the subject of Atticat and compound the problem.

Which left him struggling to think of any subject to raise at all.

“Your wife is very talented,” Cas mumbled, after a painfully long silence.

Dean choked and spluttered. “My what?”

Cas looked confused. “Your wife, Eileen. I recognise her work from the jar labels.”

“Oh, Eileen, yeah. She did the sign too. You’re right. She’s not my wife though. She’s Sam’s wife.”

Cas blinked slowly. “Sam with the hair. Sam is married to Eileen? Eileen with the dog?”

“Yup. Sam with the hair. I like that and, yeah, they do indeed have a dog. Well, Marley is officially Eileen’s service dog really, so I guess you’re right that he’s her dog.”

Cas looked adorably bewildered.

“So, um, what is your wife named?”

“I’m not married, Cas. No wife. No husband yet either,” he added, with a wink.

“Husband?” Cas squeaked.

Dean frowned. “Is that a problem?”

“Hey Dex-lite, who’s your friend?”

Dean turned to greet the sudden interruption with a genuine, but concerned, smile. “You’re here earlier than I thought you’d be.”

Cain smirked at him. “Not feeling as rough today as I’d expected to be. Still got all my hair too, so that’s a bonus.”

“Dunno, I think you’d rock the Picard look. But you do look well today,” Dean enthused. “This is Cas. He’s the guy who bought Missouri’s place.”

“Nice to meet you,” Cain said, offering his hand to Cas. “You’re the one interested in bees, I hear.”

“Um, yes, that’s right,” Cas replied, looking even more adorably bewildered.

Dean opened his mouth to introduce Cas to Cain, sure he’d be thrilled to realize this was the ‘bee-man’ himself. But before he could speak, his eyes twinkling with mirth, Cain interrupted by winking and saying, “So how’s Mr. Finch? Still carrying on his illicit affair behind your back? Can’t say I blame him, having seen your competition for myself now.”

Dean flushed guiltily. Having decided not to confront Cas over the cat, he now regretted bitching to Cain over the topic of the pink collars. He needed to change the subject quickly. “Ah, you know how it is. Grass is always greener,” he said, with a deliberately nonchalant shrug. Given the way Castiel’s piercing blue eyes narrowed suspiciously, he was pretty sure his panic was obvious but there was no way Cas would know what he was feeling guilty about, was there? Sam said Cas called the cat Ripley, so he wouldn’t associate ‘her’ with Mr Finch. “I’ve decided being a jealous asshole is beneath my dignity. Anyway, I sold out of the church candles and the lavender honey already. Going to be a short day at this rate.”

“Why don’t you take the chance to show Cas around the market now that I‘m here to cover the till?” Cain suggested.

“I um… I have to go now anyway,” Cas said, lurching to his feet, his eyes wide.

“But you haven’t met…”

“Sorry, I really must go right now.”

Dean tried not to be disappointed but wasn’t truly surprised as Cas slipped around the counter and bolted off into the crowd.

“Um… sure… See you round, Cas,” he muttered, at the fleeing man’s back.

###

The gallery in Rip Harbor was tiny and quaint, filled with prints of landscapes and sea scapes, still lifes and animal portraits, copies of quick clever almost photo-realistic sketches, clearly popular with the tourists.

The pictures that really intrigued him though, the ones placed deeper inside the shop as though judged unsuitable to catch the attention of the vacation dollar, were the more fanciful ones. The ones with a unique character and style, At the rear of the shop the frames were filled with the true creations of the woman Cas now knew to be named Eileen Winchester. 

A clarification he could have received a week ago had he given in to his impulse to visit the gallery previously.

Her full name was stated proudly on every framed original and printed copy.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, but it’s nice to actually meet in person,” she said.

Cas, flushing a little, used his very rusty ASL to greet her even as he said, “I must apologize. I haven’t practiced this in years.”

“I’m impressed you know it at all,” she assured him. “You have good lips though. It’s always difficult with a stranger, but less so with you than most people. I’m very pleased you came to see me, Cas. I would have come to visit you myself, except Dean claims you never answer your door,”

“I have unfortunately created that impression with your brother-in-law,” Cas admitted with a wince. “Though it’s genuinely more a case of unfortunate timing than deliberate avoidance.”

“Oh?”

“I’m a writer. Dean always seems to call on me when I’m in the middle of working and nothing short of a WMD gets me away from my desk when I’m writing.

She laughed with genuine delight. “As an artist, I understand exactly what you mean. There are times I am deep in the zone and not even a fire in the building would make me break my concentration. Actually, you being a writer makes sense. Since you didn’t arrange for an upgraded broadband connection, general consensus is you aren’t some city financial type working from home and you don’t commute into the city to work. So the votes are pretty evenly split at the moment between you being independently wealthy or a serial killer in hiding.”

It was Castiel’s turn to laugh. “Funny you should say that. When I said I was moving to Maine, my older brother was absolutely convinced the entire population of Heron’s Cove would turn out to be serial killers, vampires or maybe witches.”

“The witch theory would work best, considering we shut down on Halloween,” Eileen agreed. “A case could be made that we fly off on our broomsticks for hotter climates. Maybe I’ll pretend I discovered your occupation via my tarot cards. It will give me bonus cool points with the local coven.”

“Do people seriously talk about me that much?”

“Of course they do. Firstly, you’re new in town so fair game. Secondly, you haven’t responded to any of our invitations to join town meetings so since you aren’t there you become the main topic of conversation,” she told him bluntly.

Castiel squirmed awkwardly, “Invitations?”

“Don’t tell me… you don’t read your mail?”

“Not regularly,” he admitted cautiously.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “How regularly… as in how much mail have you opened since you arrived?”

“Um… approximately…. none,” Castiel said, with a wince.

“That explains Dean’s fine, I guess.”

“Fine?”

“Noise pollution. Just $50 and you weren’t in the wrong, but he was a bit hurt that you did it considering he sent you an actual written invite to the party, with an apology in advance for the noise.”

“I had no idea. I didn’t even realize the significance of the date until a week later. I have been meaning to apologize since then, but the opportunity hasn’t arisen.”

“Oh, I don’t think he minds, really. He won’t hear a word said against you. He definitely seems to be very taken by you.”

“He is? That’s peculiar and… unfortunate. I cannot imagine how or why he has gained a favorable impression of me, but I certainly would discourage any interest on his part.”

“Oh,” she said, looking sad. “Dean is a wonderful man. You could do far worse.”

“So Benny assured me,” he said dryly.

Eileen winced. “You do realise Benny has a vested interest in Dean not settling down with someone nice?”

“I definitely received that impression.”

Eileen stiffened slightly. “Before you judge, I should explain something about Dean. He’s a nurturer. Someone who has always put other people’s needs and desires above his own. Over the years I have seen one person in this town after another take advantage of that kindness. Oh, they never mean to do it. It just always works out that way. Like Lisa Braeden who got herself pregnant by some summer visitor and was completely desperate. Her parents threw her out and she was pregnant and homeless. So who came charging to her rescue? Dean, of course. He took her in, announced he was willing to raise her child as his own, and two years later little Ben’s father turned up, having decided he wanted to take responsibility after all, and Lisa decided he was the better option. Dean didn’t just lose his girlfriend, he lost a son.”

Castiel winced. “That is terrible.”

“And Benny is not a bad man. He’s behaving rather badly, but not out of deliberate malice. Benny has an ex-wife who left him. And he swears over and over that he’ll never forgive her but every now and then she gets herself in some scrape or other and Benny drops everything and runs off to help her out because no matter how hurt he is, he still loves her. And every time he eventually comes back here with his tail between his legs, all heartbroken because she’s kicked him out again. So he picks up where he left off with Dean, and he makes promises that I believe he means at the time, but then Andrea calls him and he does the whole thing all over again. Yet he implies to other people that it is Dean who is unwilling to commit to a monogamous relationship.”

“I must confess I have been guilty of making certain assumptions about Dean,” Castiel admitted. “It certainly appears my impression of him has been based upon erroneous information. I had been imagining him to be something of a lothario, yet from what you say it appears he has simply been taken advantage of.”

“Then would you at least accept an opportunity to get to know the real Dean? Come to dinner with me and Sam and I’ll invite Dean too. Not as an actual blind date. No pressure at all. Just four friends sharing a meal together. Worse case scenario you get a free home cooked meal and some pleasant company.”

“Your offer is very kind. But I must decline. I’m afraid I have to confess an interest in someone else entirely,” Castiel said, flushing slightly. 

“Oh,” she said. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea you were in a relationship already.”

“I am not. I like someone very much, however. I highly doubt my interest will ever be returned by that individual, but I would hate to offer the impression that I am open to alternative romantic approaches. It seems from what you have said that it would be most unfair to Dean. I would not wish to become yet another person taking advantage of his kind nature.”

Eileen smiled at him sadly. “No, you’re right. The last thing I want is Dean getting involved in yet another hopeless love triangle. They never work out well for him, though I honestly can’t understand how it is always he who ends up being the one left alone.”

Castiel empathized with Dean’s situation because he couldn’t understand how someone as wonderful as Dexter Cain could be in a relationship with someone who failed to appreciate him either. This ‘Mr. Finch’ was apparently constantly unfaithful to him, and yet Dexter not only chose to stay with him but seemed to feel it was unreasonable to be jealous over his partner’s infidelity. Dexter had seemed mortified when the gray-haired man had turned up and mentioned Finch in front of him. His clumsy attempt to change the subject had possibly been due to embarrassment and shame.

But a tiny part of him wanted to hope that Dexter had simply not wished Castiel to learn of Finch’s existence.

Was it possible Dexter might be interested in him?

It was highly unlikely, obviously, but possible.

Which made him feel less guilty about his own attraction towards Dexter. Although he doubted anything would come of it because Dexter was clearly loyal, despite Finch not deserving that loyalty, Castiel no longer felt guilty about wishing he could find a way to win Dexter’s attention.

“Feel free to tell me to mind my own business,” Eileen said. “But is this person you like someone from your past or is it a local?”

“It is someone I have only very recently met,” he admitted.

“Oh go on, tell me who it is,” she said. “I pinky swear I’ll never break your confidence.”

Castiel wasn’t sure he believed her in the slightest. Heron's Cove did not seem a place where confidences were ever kept. On the other hand, if she did spread the word would it be a bad thing? Hopefully not. If nothing else, his own declaration of interest might encourage Finch to treat Dexter more respectfully. 

“Whilst I must emphasize that nothing has occurred between us, and I accept it probably never will, I am intensely attracted to Dexter Cain and cannot even contemplate having a romantic interest in anyone else at this time,” he said.


	4. Chapter 4

“Oh my god,” Sam said, his eyes as huge as saucers. “Seriously?”

“Cain is a very attractive man,” Eileen argued.

“He’s old enough to be Cas’s father. Damn, I’m more than half convinced he’s Dean’s father. I think Cain believes he’s Dean’s father. Why else would he persistently call Dean Dex-lite?”

“I think it’s just a fond nickname because Cain doesn’t have any children and Dean has never renamed the shop,” Eileen countered. “Though sometimes I can see a resemblance. I think the important thing is that Cain acts more like Dean’s father than your own father ever did. There is a real and genuine bond between them regardless of blood.”

“Our own father was an asshole,” Sam replied bluntly. “Dean was more father to me than he was and I was too busy accepting Dean in that role to see that nobody was doing the same for him. Thank god Cain stepped up to the plate. He was the only adult who ever encouraged Dean to value himself. Poor Dean. I think he really likes Cas but he’d never do anything to prevent Cain finding someone special. If he thinks there’s a chance of Cain returning Cas’s interest, he’ll drop out of the race immediately. Stupid, self-sacrificing asshole that he is.”

“I got the impression Cas hasn’t actually told Cain how he feels. He appears almost certain Cain won't be interested in him,” Eileen said.

“I honestly don’t know whether Cain would be open to a male suitor or not. I know he’s completely accepting of Dean’s bisexuality but he’s never suggested he is similarly inclined. Having said that, I think it’s a moot point anyway. His cancer is stage three. He only has a 40% survival rate. Whilst that means he has an almost 50/50 chance of getting through this okay, and we’re obviously all rooting for him, I can’t see him even considering a new relationship before he’s fully in remission.”

“That’s probably the reason Cas believes his interest won’t lead to anything,” Eileen suggested. “But the heart wants what the heart wants. He’s right that it wouldn’t be fair to even consider a relationship with Dean if his heart wants Cain,” Eileen said. “Though if it’s just a lust thing, maybe it’s just a bit of a crush and he’ll get over it and move on. Cain’s an attractive man but Dean is in a different league entirely.”

Sam nodded unhappily. “Yeah, but maybe it’s less a lust thing than an emotional one. Maybe their shared love of bees is the clincher. They definitely have more in common with each other than Cas and Dean do, except for the age difference.”

“Maybe not,” Eileen said, with a sly smirk.

“What do you mean?”

“I was intrigued enough by Cas’s claim to be a writer to go online and check with the land registry. It’s finally been updated with the purchase details of Missouri’s house. Guess what the new owner’s name is? Castiel James Novak.”

“You’re kidding,” Sam said, his eyes widening with shock. “Cas is C.J. Novak? Dean’s favorite author? The one he squees over like a fan girl whenever a new book is released?”

“The very same. So maybe they have more in common than you think. I have an idea of how I might use that to bring them together.”

######

Castiel had a plan.

It was not a highly complicated plan.

It did, however, require some meticulous timing.

And that required reconnaissance.

Which was why he had been sitting opposite Jeffery’s Second Hand Bookstore since five that morning. The 5am start had only been necessary to ensure a parking space, since he had been uncertain what time the tourist cars began to fill up all available places on Gacy Street.

He had a fully charged notebook, and two power banks for backup since, in his experience, the battery life of laptops never matched the manufacturer’s claims. He also had two fat thermoses of coffee and a dozen donuts from Jack’s Bakery.

The latter had not been part of his plan.

The curse of a small town was that reconnaissance did not equate to stealth.

He had barely been parked an hour before there had been a light but insistent tapping on his window by the town Sheriff, followed by an amiable interrogation as to why he was just sitting there in his car. Fortunately he’d anticipated such an event. He’d stiffly announced his prepared story that he was a writer and required some background characters for fleshing out his latest novel, so he simply planned to take notes regarding the various town visitors that day.

Jody Mills had looked more amused than convinced. She had, however, returned to his car half an hour later with a bag of freshly baked donuts from Jack’s Bakery which she had gifted to him with the comment that there was a town ordinance against fainting from low blood sugar on the Main Street.

Castiel was beginning to feel that the entire town shared the same kind of offbeat humor as his brother.

But now his stalking credentials had been established, he received no further interruptions and he genuinely did fill several useful pages of observations that might be useful in future writing.

Well, assuming he changed genres from hardcore sci-fi and instead wrote some kind of popular werewolfy/ vampirey/ teenfic based in small town Maine.

Crowley would probably throw a party if he suggested it.

More importantly, he had established there was a pattern to how the shops operated. From 10am until 2pm, he saw a pretty, slightly plump blonde woman entering each shop in turn, taking her place behind the counters and allowing each of the shopkeepers to take a short break.

From 11 to 11.30, she replaced Benny behind the counter of Ted’s pie palace. She didn’t take over at Dexter’s until 12.30.

So that hour was his window of opportunity.

Satisfied with his morning’s work, he slipped his car into gear and drove home.

The following day he arrived in town at 10.30am, parked of necessity—due to his late arrival—well away from Gacy Street, then walked at a pace to guarantee his arrival at Ted’s no sooner than 11.10, where he braved a queue and purchased a Salted Caramel and Sour Apple pie. The fact it was the same variety as Benny had recommended he took for Dean did give him a moment’s pause but when he’d told the bubbly blonde he was taking the pie to Dexter’s as a thank you for the delivery of some goods, she’d insisted it was the best choice.

Since the shop was crowded with tourists, a throng of half-naked, tanned sweaty humanity that made Castiel’s skin crawl, he hadn’t really paused to question or argue. Perhaps that odd pie flavor was simply a peculiar local speciality that everyone liked, he suggested hesitantly as he paid.

“Oh, yeah. You betcha,” the blonde agreed. “Benny specifically created the pie for Dean but it’s become a surprise hit with most locals. Folks in Heron’s Cove take pie real seriously – they eat all sorts of wackadoo flavors round here, ya know.”

He nodded awkwardly, then hurriedly left the shop before Benny returned. He did not want further conversation with the man. Particularly not on the subject of his neighbor. He didn’t even want to think about Dean when he was on his way to see Dexter.

He wasn’t sure how he could feel such guilt regarding someone he’d never even met, but the picture Eileen had painted of her brother-in-law had been sufficiently eye opening that Castiel was sincerely regretting the 4th of July incident. He was determined that no matter how deep in the ‘zone’ he was, when his neighbor next approached him he would definitely open the door if only to make his long overdue apology.

But that was a problem for another day. Not one he wished to deal with when he had a pie in his hand and a shopkeeper with peridot eyes to call upon.

It was 11.23 when he entered Dexter’s to the accompaniment of a jangling bell. Dexter was sitting behind the counter, serving an old lady who looked suspiciously like the woman Castiel had almost accidentally side-swiped with his trailer on his first day in town. Fortunately, despite him imagining his guilt was written all over his face, she didn’t appear to recognize him.

“I can’t believe you had it,” she was saying, her cheeks flushed with pleasure. “And so inexpensive too. I was sure I was finally going to have to give in and buy one of those terrible electric ones. I’m not sure I could possibly have slept for worry with one of those things in the house.” Then, clutching a tiny brown paper bag as though it was concealing the Hope Diamond, she left the store with a beaming smile on her face.

Dexter watched her departure with a soft, fond look on his face. “Little things,” he told Castiel.

Castiel cocked his head and arched a brow in query.

“Just a replacement whistle for her old kettle. She’s a bit forgetful so it isn’t safe for her to leave a kettle boiling on her range without one but she’s mortally terrified of ‘new-fangled electrics’. It doesn’t matter how often the fire chief assures her electric kettles are safe, she prefers to remain in the comfort zone of her own long established habits. But then again, don’t we all?”

“A needful thing then,” Castiel replied, charmed by Dexter’s obvious delight in pleasing the old lady. It seemed as unfair as it was improbable that Dexter’s personality was as pretty as his face. Wasn’t it a rule of thumb that the better looking people were, the more obnoxiously they behaved? Dexter had done nothing but confound his expectations since they’d met.

“It’s what Dexter’s has always been about,” Dexter said. “Supplying all the little things that make life better. I guess it all seems pretty mundane to a big city guy like you. Folks around here aren’t looking for heroes to save them from fire-breathing dragons. But just because their problems are small doesn’t mean they are trivial. Little things matter.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Cas agreed wholeheartedly. “Solving one tiny genuine need is far more valid than fulfilling any number of perceived wants. Though I confess my primary confusion over your apparent ability to supply any ‘need’ is your ability to locate the required item at all. One might suspect the application of magic considering the chaos of your shelves,” he said, then winced as he realized that had probably sounded rather offensive. He really needed to think more before he spoke.

Fortunately, Dexter just chuckled and smiled disarmingly. “I know the shop looks chaotic, but it’s completely organized in its own unique way. The only way to stock such a myriad of different items in such a restricted space is to store things based on size or shape or packaging type rather than purpose. That’s why it makes sense to have funnels next to party hats, for instance. A case of form over function, I guess.”

Castiel considered that, then nodded his understanding of the point. “It must require an enviable memory to locate products though.”

“It’s why I work such long hours. It’s practically impossible to hire help. Sam and Donna are the only people with any understanding of the stock system at all, even though I have an excel spreadsheet for inventory control which helps them to locate stuff.”

“You have a system?” Castiel enquired incredulously, wrinkling his nose dubiously at the haphazardly stacked shelves, then he winced again. Perhaps Gabriel was right. The more time he spent alone, the even less capable he was of polite conversation.

Again, Dexter was too kind to take umbrage at the implied criticism. “Don’t sound so shocked,” he laughed. “Memory is all well and good but cataloguing is King. Every shelf has an identifier. The store works on the same principle as a reference library except it doesn’t even matter what category a product actually is; the only true consideration is its physical location. You look at the shop and see chaos. I see items sitting exactly where they belong.”

“I understand your reasoning, but still would imagine that keeping, say, all of the gardening equipment together would make more logical sense.”

“For customers just wanting to browse, sure,” Dexter agreed easily. “Which is why the external display is more traditional, since those shelves are aimed primarily at the tourist trade. But although the vacation dollar helps to pay the rent, selling stuff has never really been the point of Dexter’s. It isn’t about encouraging impulse buying. Fuck knows there’s enough shops in the world that actively encourage consumerism without me jumping on that bandwagon. Dexter’s is about problem solving. On the whole, people walk in here already knowing what they need. So the trick is just in being able to solve that need quickly and my cataloguing system works for that because I know how to locate the items, so that’s all that counts in the end.”

“Hence your long hours and problem with staffing,” Castiel pointed out bluntly.

Dexter chuckled. “Nothing’s perfect. Except for pie. Speaking of which, what have you got there?” He asked, his eyes honing in on the fragrant pie box in Castiel’s hands and brightening with hopeful expectation even as he surreptitiously sniffed as though hoping to discern the contents.

“Salted Caramel and Sour Apple. A personable blonde lady just assured me this ‘wackadoo’ flavor is a town favorite.”

And, no, the way Dexter unconsciously licked his lips in response to that statement was not seductive.

“Dunno about that, but it’s definitely my favorite,” Dexter said, staring at the box with undisguised lust.

“Good,” Castiel said, “Because I don’t believe my waistline would appreciate me eating an entire pie by myself. I was hoping you might consent to share it with me. Though it is possibly too large even for two people.”

“Consent?” Dexter scoffed. “Throw it down on the counter, Cas, while I grab two forks. Then I’ll show you the error of your ways in imagining the words ‘too large’ ever belong in the same sentence as pie.”

From the very first laden forkful, Castiel was sure Dexter was correct. The flaky buttery pastry, the too sharp apple, the too sweet caramel, all combined with a far too salty bite that somehow transformed the entirety into a mouthful of pure heaven. The writer in him couldn’t help considering the pie as metaphor. A suggestion that anything, good or bad, could be balanced by its opposite enough to become something uniquely wondrous.

“Good, huh?” Dexter sighed, his mouth still full of unmasticated pie. It should have been disgusting. Castiel’s mother would certainly have said so. Instead Dexter’s almost pornographic moan of contentment caused Castiel to flush with a different kind of hunger and he decided there were a lot of subjects upon which his mother was mistaken.

They ate in silence for a while—save for Dexter’s occasional groans of heartfelt pleasure. It was only when Castiel found his fork hunting for a stray crumb that he realized the box was empty.

Dexter sighed sadly as he too reached the same conclusion. “All good things, huh?”

“Indeed,” Castiel agreed mournfully, as he lay his fork down.

“So unless this was just a pie break… and don’t misunderstand me because I’m totally on board for this becoming a new tradition… was there some specific reason you came in?”

“I wished to speak with you regarding a … delicate… subject. I don’t wish to offend you, and I will of course understand if you believe the topic is an unacceptable one to broach. Particularly within your place of business,” Castiel said, carefully. “I do know my social skills are… rusty. So perhaps this entire conversation is inappropriate. But, if you would permit, I wish to discuss Mr Finch’s behavior with you.”

“Oh, shit,” Dexter groaned, rubbing his face tiredly. “Who spilled the beans?”

“Beans?” Castiel repeated hesitantly.

“Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not a problem,” Dexter assured him hurriedly, his expression earnest. “Well, okay, in the interests of fairness, it gotta admit it was a problem for me at first but I’ve slept since then. I genuinely want to be your friend, Cas, so it’s not really a topic we need to discuss any more. Can’t we consider it water under the bridge?”

Castiel frowned. Had he misinterpreted the situation entirely? Had Dexter already made the decision to leave Finch. “Is it? Under the bridge?” He queried carefully.

“Might as well be, considering how infrequently I see him these days. I doubt he’s ever coming home for good, so I think it’s a done deal. No point crying over spilled milk, is there?”

Then it appeared that Finch had left Dexter, rather than the other way around. Whilst both situations were nominally the same, the fact the decision had been taken by Finch, rather than by Dean, raised an even more difficult problem. Castiel cleared his throat, then said, “But should he choose to return, would you welcome him?”

Dexter rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Well, yeah, I ain’t gonna lie, Cas. My door’s always going to be open to him. I can’t switch my own feelings off just because he’s a disloyal little asshole.”

Castiel nodded sadly. “Which is why I don’t believe it is a subject that can simply be ignored if we are, indeed, to become better acquainted.” He didn’t know whether it was even possible to consider a future relationship with Dexter under the circumstances, but even a ‘friendship’ could be problematic without understanding the nature of Dexter’s peculiar relationship with Finch.

“I guess you’re right. I knew the subject would come up eventually,” Dexter said, looking sad and somewhat guilty. “Nobody around here ever minds their own business. I guess someone couldn’t wait to tell you the truth about me and Atticat, huh?”

Castiel blinked. “Atticat?”

“That’s his full name, Atticat Finch,” Dexter said, though he appeared reluctant to admit it.

Castiel thought it was a highly unusual name. But he was hardly in a position to judge. Clearly Finch’s parents were the same kind of thoughtless idiots as his own. Castiel was of the personal opinion that the United States should adopt the Swedish Name Law. Anyone who wanted to name their offspring something bizarrely inappropriate like Apple or Castiel or Atticat should be subject to prosecution for child abuse.

“I don’t wish to overreach, but don’t you consider yourself deserving of more loyalty than ‘Atticat’ affords you?” Castiel asked carefully. “Surely trust and commitment should be the cornerstone of every relationship.”

Dexter pouted prettily. “I’m not sure what standard you’re expecting him to behave to. He’s suffered a lot of trauma in his past. I’m not asshole enough to expect him to just put that behind him and forget those bad things happened to him. Sure he’s lived with me for years but people have hurt him before and those scars run deep. I think he only settled for me in the first place because I was a ‘safe’ option. But it doesn’t mean I’m really what he wants or needs. I work a lot of hours and I guess he gets lonely. I can understand that. Truth be told, I’m surprised he’s hung around for so long at all. Greener pastures were always going to beckon.”

Castiel thought the use of the word ‘settled’ was bizarre under the circumstances. Anyone should feel privileged by Dexter’s affection. Though he was given to understand that kind people, like Dexter, often undervalued themselves and clearly this Finch was taking advantage of his good nature. “Every interaction I have had with you leads me to consider you a genuinely kind and caring individual. This is why your affection for Finch concerns me. I do not like to imagine you being hurt by his cavalier behavior,” he said bluntly.

Dexter frowned at him for a while, clearly giving some thoughtful consideration to his reply. “It is what it is. It’s not like his behavior is under my control,” he eventually said, with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “I can’t stop him going off and doing his own thing. Well, not unless you’re suggesting I lock him in a cage in my basement or something while I’m out at work.”

“Well, no, of course not,” Castiel agreed hastily, not wishing to sound critical of Dexter nor as though he was someone who supported domestic abuse. Or would that equate to BDSM? He impatiently thrust the thought aside and returned to his point. “But loyalty, faithfulness, is important, don’t you think?”

“If his behavior bothered me that much, I’d buy a dog,” Dexter said, with a nonchalant shrug. “I think that’s the only way to guarantee slavish devotion. I have honestly decided my initial jealousy over his wandering ways was childish. I have decided I am mature enough to accept that he is not my property. He’s free to share his affections as he chooses.”

Castiel couldn’t help but consider Dexter’s attitude to be an unhealthy one. Were he in Finch’s enviable position, he certainly wouldn’t ever stray. The fact that Dexter thought infidelity was inevitable was a sad indictment.

Though hadn’t his mother claimed that homosexuality was a perversion precisely because of the supposed inability of gay men to commit to monogamous relationships? He had believed her comment had been a fiction born of ignorance but, if it was true, perhaps Castiel would be better suited to become a monk after all.

“I just think you deserve better,” he admitted heavily. “I believe you are definitely someone who deserves a more monogamous relationship.”

To his surprise, Dexter barked with laughter at his comment. “I definitely don’t think the words ‘monogamy’ and ‘Atticat’ belong in the same sentence.”

“Clearly not,” Castiel agreed disapprovingly, but took the hint and changed the subject entirely.

###

“I think he was suggesting I should buy a puppy,” Dean told Charlie.

“That’s a bit rich, considering he’s effectively stolen your cat. Sounds like he was blaming you for Atticat leaving. I don’t like victim-blamers.”

Dean shook his head firmly. “No, I’m sure that wasn’t his intent. He isn’t the easiest conversationalist so I could have taken what he said badly but, trust me, he’s just a sweet, dorky, awkward guy who genuinely seems worried about my feelings. It’s like he’s worried I’m too emotionally fragile to own a cat at all.”

“Well, he does kinda have a point,” Charlie agreed with a reluctant wince. “Cats are notoriously fickle and you do have a horrible habit of investing too heavily in all of your relationships. You even take it personally if your car won’t start.”

“Yeah, and Mr. Finch never really was my cat, I guess. I was just a port in a storm for him and now he’s found himself a better option. Good for him,” Dean said, trying not to sound hurt.

“It’s probably just that you spend so little time at home,” Charlie suggested. “Cas rarely leaves his house at all. Only natural that she… I mean he… spends more time at Cas’s place. Cats like company even if they’re standoffish assholes.”

“I don’t blame him. I’d spend all my free time round Cas’s place too, given the opportunity. Maybe it’s the one-ear thing. Maybe I should do a Van Gogh and see if that gets me past his front door,” he snickered.

“Did he tell you what he does for a living?” she asked nonchalantly.

“He didn’t say and I didn’t like to ask. Look, the guy’s a recluse. I don’t know if he works at all. He might have some form of actual mental illness, like Sam suggested, or maybe he just dislikes people on principle and chooses to play Howard Hughes to avoid them. The point though is it’s his business. He’s not doing anyone any harm. And for some reason he seems to have decided he wants to be my friend. I think that’s a really major thing for someone like him. I’m genuinely really touched that he not only chose to come and spend time with me, but came bearing pie. That proves he pays attention. That he cares, even if he struggles to show it. I even double checked with Donna when she came in to man the store and she confirmed he specifically asked which pie I liked best. So that proves he’s really trying, doesn’t it? The thing with Atticat wasn’t his fault and the more I think about it, the more I think the two of them suit each other. They’re like bookends. Both cute, prickly little stand-offish jerks,” he laughed. “So as far as I’m concerned, I’m going to let Cas keep the cat and set the pace of our relationship and that includes letting him choose the subject matter of our conversations.”

“But you do find him really attractive, right?” Charlie asked carefully.

“Have you seen him? I want to climb him like a tree,” Dean admitted. “But unless he ever gives me the green light, I have no intention of ever risking making him uncomfortable with me by saying anything. I’ve decided to treat him the way I handled Atticat at the beginning. By being approachable and welcoming, but allowing him to initiate and control every encounter.”

“I respect that,” she said. “And you’re right. If Cas really is as reclusive as you say, I don’t think he’ll respond well to pressure even if he is attracted to you too. But, I think Sam is wrong about Cas being ill. I think he’s simply a very private man.”

“I hope so. Primarily because Sam is always insufferable when he’s right about something,” Dean chuckled fondly.

“He can be a little smug,” she laughed.

“Why do you think I’ve never admitted Atticat Finch is female?” Dean asked, with a smirk.

Charlie butted like a motorboat before finally gasping “but… you... you always insist Atticat is male.”

Dean shrugged. “I didn’t know anything about cats before he turned up. I just assumed he was a boy. So I named him months before Sam told me about the calico thing, so it was already an ingrained habit and then, well, Sam was all Sam about it, so I was hardly going to back down at that point, was I? So that’s why Atticat’s adjectives are always going to be ‘he’ and ‘him’ as far as I’m concerned. But that doesn’t mean I’m an idiot.”

Charlie snorted with laughter. “Your secret is safe with me,” she agreed. “Because it is funny whenever Sam gives you the lecture and you’re all ‘nope, he’s a ginger Tom with impetigo’.”

“It’s the look on his face,” Dean agreed. “Like he’s desperate to just call me a moron and be done with it, but instead he just keeps trying to ‘convince’ me to voluntarily change my mind because he’s far too caring to actually deliberately hurt my feelings.”

“Nobody ever wants to hurt your feelings, Dean. You’re a genuinely good guy and the whole town knows how lucky we are to have you,” Charlie said, her expression uncharacteristically solemn. “Which is why I have been nominated to encourage you to volunteer to arrange a town festival for next month.”

Dean narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “What town festival? Because it’s the end of July which is a bit late in the day for planning an August event. The last time I got roped into organizing something last minute, half the town ended up high as a kite and it wasn’t even my fault, was it? I still ended up having to put things right and I still can’t look at chili without cringing.”

“I solemnly promise this has nothing to do with food and no one ever blamed you for that fiasco anyway. We all learned the lesson that Ash’s credentials as a mushroom forager are highly suspect.”

“So what’s the idea this time?”

“A literary festival. Maine’s full of writers and poets. As long as we can get one or two bigger names to come, we can fill the rest with minor locals. Tourists love that kind of thing so the whole town will benefit. Most importantly, Jeff will be able to clear a load of stock and we all know he’s been struggling for trade lately. So even if this doesn’t turn out to be a great hit for the whole town, at least one person will still benefit hugely from the effort.”

As she hoped, the mention of Jeff hit Dean’s defences like a battering ram. Jeff was the last of the original storekeepers, the only owner whose name still matched his sign. The octogenarian was clinging on to his store by his fingertips because people rarely bought paper copies of books anymore. His primary business now depended only on the bartering of the kind of popular paperbacks people picked up at airports, then discarded half-finished on their way home again. His bargain baskets were stocked primarily with donations from all the local guest houses and hotels of books abandoned by visitors.

But Jeff’s shop did still contain a wealth of valuable old out of print books that the right kind of visitors would delight in. The struggle was in bringing those types of tourists to their tiny town to browse through Jeff’s treasures.

“A literary festival, huh?” Dean repeated thoughtfully. “I guess if we staged it on the Sunday directly after the Maine Literary Festival in Bangor, we might manage to pick up a number of their visitors too. People might not be willing to travel all the way to a remote place like this for a day, especially at such short notice, but if they’re coming to Bangor on the Saturday anyway, getting them to drive another thirty miles to make a weekend of it would make sense. I wonder if the publishers involved in the main Lit Fest could be convinced this would be a good way to offload any leftovers from Saturday. We might even manage to get some of their authors to join in. I think we’d need a unique attraction too though. At least one big name writer who can’t make the Saturday fest, otherwise why would people bother with attending both events?”

“Talk to Cain. Maybe his tall tales about personally knowing Stephen King aren’t complete fantasy,” Charlie suggested.

“I’ve never doubted Cain’s claims. But I can’t see a living legend like King getting involved in a tiny Heron’s Cove festival even if Cain does genuinely know him,” Dean chuckled. “But we could contact some publishing houses not connected to the Bangor Lit Fest and see if they have anyone living nearby willing to do a new book promotion or a reading or just some book signing.”

“Good idea,” Charlie agreed. “Tell you what, pull it off, save Jeff’s, and I’ll buy you a puppy myself.”

###

“You’re an idiot.”

Castiel frowned at the screen as though he might explode it with nothing more than the power of his glare. “Had I realized you installed ‘Zoom’ on my computer merely to mock me more effectively, I would not have consented.”

Gabriel smirked unrepentantly. “It’s your choice, bro. I warned you before, and I meant it, if you don’t log-on and offer me visible proof of life at least once every couple of months, I’m going to have to assume you’ve been turned by the local vampires and come there to rescue you. Hmmm, speaking of which, you do look a bit pale to me. You absolutely sure you haven’t been donating to the local blood bank? It would explain this whole Renfield gig.”

“Renfield? What on Earth are you implying? I have not developed zoophagia.”

“The fact you know the actual word for it is grounds for concern, Cassie, but seriously I think you should either steer clear of this charismatic Dexter and whatever weird relationship he has going on with this Finch guy, or just lay your cards on the table and just ask him out already. What’s the worst he can do? If he says no, you’re still in a better position than this weird limbo.”

“He is quite spectacularly beautiful,” Castiel admitted. “I find it a specific problem.”

Gabriel whistled under his breath. “What are the odds, huh? Has an actual human being ever had this effect on you before?”

“No,” Castiel said, with an annoyed sigh. “It is highly inconvenient.”

“I can imagine. Are we talking full on fainting or just panicky-stuff?”

“Panicky stuff?” Castiel repeated incredulously.

“You know what I mean,” Gabriel shrugged. “Are the meds holding up?”

“To an extent. A higher dosage would have an emotional blunting effect that would cause me to become too apathetic to write, let alone pursue a romantic interest.” Castiel’s face twisted into a grimace. “Medication aside, I am… somewhat lacking in the skills required for personal relationships anyway,” he admitted heavily. “I have never found it easy to be sociable. I have however found it remarkably comfortable to be in Dexter’s company, my attraction towards him notwithstanding. I may be mistaken, but I believe he is genuinely, if unexpectedly, interested in offering me friendship. That is a remarkable and welcome development in itself. I am uncertain whether I would take the chance of risking that friendship with a declaration of attraction, even if Finch was not in the background.”

“You’ve been friend-zoned, huh?”

Castiel blinked with incomprehension.

“You know you’re in the friend zone if you are offering relationship advice to the person you’re attracted to,” Gabriel explained. “It means this Dexter is seeing you as a confidante rather than a potential love interest.”

“In that case, I would concur that I am very much located within the zone of ‘friend’. Whilst that is not ideal, I believe it is important to be realistic. I don’t wish to be like Amelia, erroneously assuming my affections are returned.”

Gabriel chewed his thumb for a moment as he considered the issue. “Okay, so you’ve already given him the ‘you deserve better speech’. I think you need to just let that percolate for a bit. You’re right that you can’t actually influence how he feels, all you can do is show him he could do better and then leave it to him to make his own mind up. Getting out of bad relationships is rarely an easy process, especially when there’s a power imbalance. From what you’ve said, this guy Finch is manipulating Dexter by playing the victim-card. That means Dexter is probably a nice guy, who can’t help himself from playing the heroic martyr in the situation. So if you criticise Finch, no matter how justified you are, you’ll box Dexter into a corner where he will have to defend Finch because he’s already accepted the role of being Finch’s protector.”

“That makes a surprising amount of logical sense,” Castiel said. “You’re right. From now on I will be careful not to mention Finch at all as I continue my efforts to befriend Dexter.”

###

“Key Lime Hibiscus,” Cas announced grumpily, as grim-faced as though he were announcing an imminent apocalypse, as he entered Dexter’s at 11.23 the following Wednesday.

Dean looked up with a delighted grin and reached for the forks he had placed near the counter in hope. Clearly Cas had taken his suggestion to make ‘pie day’ a tradition to heart. The fact he’d walked in precisely to the minute of his prior arrival was, frankly, one of those weird dorkish Cas’isms that made him so endearing.

Not for the first time, Dean wondered whether Cas was on the autistic spectrum. Adding up all of his behavior definitely pointed in that direction but Cas definitely didn’t have any problem with eye contact. So maybe not.

Dean shrugged internally. Labels were bogus anyway. The important thing was Cas was Cas and Dean liked him. He would like him more, maybe, if he didn’t spend six days a week locked inside his house like a hermit or a…

Damn, what if Cas was a serial killer?

A bizarre and stupid thought Dean blamed entirely on the fact he’d just come off the phone from speaking to Mr. Stephen King. THE Stephen King. He was still in a state of complete fanboyish wonder. He was also convinced the great man now probably thought Dean Winchester was an inbred moron incapable of stringing two words together, since he’d stammered and stuttered through the whole conversation.

So maybe mentioning it to Cas wouldn’t gain him any cool points.

Still, “So, speaking of books, read any Stephen King lately?” he asked, to test the water.

“We were not speaking of books,” Cas pointed out, after chewing and swallowing and patting his lips with a napkin. Which might have been a subtle commentary on Dean’s own tendency to speak with his mouth full. “But whilst I consider him a greatly skilled writer and I liked his work published under the name of Richard Bachman, horror is definitely not a genre I enjoy. My personal preference is for high fantasy and science fiction.”

“Like, um, the stuff by Tad Williams?” Dean asked.

“Precisely,” Cas agreed. 

All thought of mentioning Stephen King fled as Dean considered the communique he’d received that morning from Random House. Now if he could pull that off, he was sure Cas would be far more impressed. It would be better, maybe, to wait until he could say something that might actually wrest a genuine smile from Cas’s face.

“I was hoping you might be able to recommend some suitable biennial plants that I should sow this summer if my garden is to become bee-friendly next year. I was contemplating Hollyhocks and Foxgloves,” Cas said, as he reached for more pie.

And just like that, Dean allowed the subject to change to what Cas wished to discuss and so failed to mention the LitFest entirely.

###

“Explain this to me again in small words,” Sam said, looking at the gathered guilty faces with an expression definitely more suited to LawyerSam than his normal Heron’s Cove persona. “Because what you’re saying is the whole town is trying to help Dean, but all I’m hearing is you’re all colluding in a plot to deceive him.”

“Deceive is such a judgy word,” Charlie pouted.

“A disrespectful word when applied to officers of the Law,” Jody added. 

“You betcha,” Donna agreed, straightening her part-time deputy uniform for emphasis. Since she was still also wearing an apron from her shift at Jack’s bakery, her attempt to look professional was less than successful.

“We aren’t deceiving Dean,” Eileen said, rolling her eyes. “We are merely failing to pass along some pertinent information. It is a sin of omission at worst.”

“The fact you are actively using that information for your own purposes—and involving him in arranging this Festival—rather negates that argument. I just can’t see what you’re hoping to achieve.”

“Look, anyone with eyes can see that Dean thinks Castiel is the second coming,” Jody said. “Every time someone mentions the way Cas glowers at everyone, he goes all doe-eyed and mutters ‘Grumpy Cas’ under his breath like it’s an endearment. And even if Cas says he’s more interested in Cain, the fact he spent most of a day casing the town so he could figure out how to avoid Benny, buy Dean’s favorite pie and then share it with him, makes it absolutely obvious to everyone that Cas likes Dean too.”

“And he did it again today,” Donna added with a grin. “It’s a thing now.”

“You’re spying on him?”

“I sold him the pie, ya doofus. And when I asked what flavor he wanted, he came right out and snapped at me he was taking it to Dexter’s so I should give him the most ‘suitable’ flavor, so he’s not even trying to hide his interest in Dean anymore.”

“Besides, it’s Heron’s Cove,” Jody scoffed. “Everyone knows everyone’s business.”

Eileen nodded.“So the only question is why Cas finds Cain more attractive, and the answer can only be because of what you said, Sam, that he doesn’t think he and Dean have enough in common. So Cas has obviously friend-zoned Dean and everyone knows it takes something significant to change a friend-zone mindset,” she said.

“Something dramatic,” Charlie agreed.

“Like someone gettin’ thrown in a lake of cookie-dough milkshake and they’re gonna drown unless you drink it all up to save their life an’ prove you… what? Could happen!” Donna insisted dreamily.

Charlie rolled her eyes. “Castiel is a writer, so what can possibly be more significant and dramatic than him seeing Dean manage to pull off the organisation of the best amateur Lit Fest ever? And since this is Dean we’re talking about, we’re confident it will be brilliant.”

“I‘ll give you that,” Sam allowed. “But why not just come right out and tell Dean that Cas is C.J. Novak? Given that he’s running around like a headless chicken trying to organize this thing, how is giving him a heads up that his own favorite writer lives literally next door a bad thing?”

“Because that would ruin everything. Dean would get all awkward and fanboyish and probably overcompensate by acting like an asshole. Cas would think Dean was deliberately organizing the festival to impress him. He’d think the whole thing was just intended to be some elaborate honey trap. They’re guys. They don’t use their words,” Charlie said. “Just imagine the scene, Dean opening the Lit Fest, wandering around to see the authors and finding Cas sitting at C.J. Novak’s stall, then squeeing like a teenager, and Cas realizing Dean had previously had no idea whatsoever of who he really was. It’s going to be like that moment Clark Kent pulls off his glasses and Lois Lane finally gets slapped in the face that dorky friend-zoned Clark is really hunk-of-burning-love Superman.”

“Good grief,” Sam groaned. “Hunk-of-burning-love? Did you really just say that? Has Ash been foraging mushrooms around here again?”

“It’s romantic,” Charlie insisted. “Don’t diss our feels, you anti-Cupid. This is going to be epic.”

Sam shook his head firmly. “An epic disaster, except there’s absolutely no way you can pull this off so I don’t know why I’m even worrying. It’s absolutely impossible for Cas and Dean to get through the next three weeks without someone or something letting the cat out of the bag. Like, I dunno, the fact they are now regularly talking to each other.”

“Yeah, well, that could be a problem,” Jody agreed. “I suppose we were counting on Cas doing his normal routine of disappearing down a rabbit hole for a few weeks. This regular pie ‘thing’ wasn’t part of our plan.”

Sam pursed his lips, then shook his head. “No, but it’s just as well. I know you all meant well, but this has disaster written all over it. This isn’t a hallmark movie. Neither of them will be grateful for your meddling. They’ll just end up horribly embarrassed and convinced the whole town has been laughing behind their backs. You’re picturing the scene as ‘romantic’. Personally, I think it would be mortifying. And Castiel is an intensely private man. I wouldn’t be surprised if he reacted with genuine horror to being put in such a publicly exposed position. He'd probably just bolt for his car and leave town forever. So I’m putting my foot down. Either you tell Dean right now or I will.”

The four women all pouted, but their expressions were resigned rather than argumentative. As Sam had said, the odds of them getting through the next three weeks without an inadvertent ‘reveal’ were highly improbable anyway.

“I guess Cas might still be impressed by what Dean’s already pulled off anyway,” Charlie suggested.

“Except Dean being Dean, he’ll insist on giving Cain all the credit and so Cas will end up even more interested in Cain instead,” Jody grumbled.

“Yes, well meddling usually does have those kinds of unintended consequences,” Sam pointed out.

“You do know being all ‘I told you so’ is a highly unattractive character trait?” Charlie sniffed.

“Unfortunately, Sam’s right,” Eileen decided unhappily. “But there might be a slight chance of redeeming this a little. How about us giving Cas the heads up, rather than Dean? As you said, Sam, it’s Castiel’s reaction that is the most important in this situation. I think we should send him a formal invitation to attend the event, addressed to him by name, signed by Dean, and that way he will be the one to raise the subject when they next talk to each other.”

“How does that help?” Charlie asked.

Surprisingly, it was Sam who replied. “Dean won’t get a chance to talk himself into believing someone like C. J. Novak wouldn’t be interested in him anyway, so he won’t come up with a thousand ways to sabotage himself before the conversation,” he said, then shrugged. “Look, I know my brother. I fully understand why you all think he needs a bit of relationship assistance. It’s too late to cancel the Festival and, anyway, it really is a brilliant idea for helping Jeff and the rest of the town. If it goes well, maybe it could become an annual event. 

“But Castiel is a nice guy. A bit odd, admittedly, but eccentricity is practically a job-requirement for a writer. My point is that I don’t want him getting blind-sided because, apart from anything else, Dean will never forgive any of us if Cas gets hurt.”

###

“The idea is ridiculous,” Castiel told Crowley, frowning at the screen and definitely regretting the installation of the Zoom App. “Even assuming all the editing and printing goes to schedule, my current book won’t be released until late October. Random always intended it for the Christmas market. That schedule was agreed fifteen months ago. So even if I was willing to do publicity for it, I won’t have anything actually ready to sell in August.”

“You’re missing the point. The cover was designed months ago, long before you finally actually bothered to sit down and write the damned thing. All the publicity posters and shit have already been produced. Getting a buzz around the launch with some pre-release publicity is a good thing. The publishers are suggesting a re-release of the first four novels both in print and as a discounted Kindle box set. That way, new readers will get drawn in and have a couple of months to get up to speed before the new release and that might win a ton of pre-orders too. So you can sign copies of the old crap and promote the coming launch of the new one.”

“I don’t do publicity,” Castiel argued. “You know that. No photos. No interviews.”

“It’s a festival, not an appearance on Ellen,” Crowley snapped. “Read your contract, Castiel. I may have managed to negotiate you having a limited bio without photo on your dustcovers, but you’re still obliged to do occasional book signings and promotions. You know this. You’ve done them before.”

“Libraries. Small independent bookshops. Definitely not Festivals.”

“It’s a stall inside a tent in a field,” Crowley scoffed. “And you’ll be just one of thirty-odd authors, several of whom are considerably more popular than you are. I doubt any reporters will even bother with you. You’re hardly Mr. Personality. Talking to you is like getting blood out of a stone, and it’s not particularly interesting blood anyway. Hardly worth the squeeze.”

“Thank you,” Castiel said dryly.

Crowley rolled his eyes. “You write in a niche genre and you’ve carved a solid reputation inside it. But if you want to ever afford a nice house, rather than a hovel in bumfuck, Maine, either start writing something likely to hit the bestseller lists or start cooperating with the publishers to get considerably more exposure for your current work.”

“I’m quite happy where I am, both in terms of genre and actual physical location.”

“Speaking of which, you still haven’t filled in your amended address details. I have emailed you literally dozens of times about it.”

“My omission is deliberate,” Castiel sniffed. “The decision to move several states away from your office was not coincidental .”

“Charming, but this is germaine. I know you’re in Maine ‘somewhere near Bangor’. What I want to know is how far you are away from some place called... um… Heron’s Cove.”

“What?” Castiel startled. “Why?”

“Because the Maine Festival is on Saturday the 28th in Bangor, but some little town down the road called Heron’s Cove are planning to hold their own literary festival on Sunday 29th, presumably to latch onto the buzz raised by the main event, and the MWPA have decided to support it, rather than see it as competition.”

“I think since their ethos is to promote writers and publishers, they probably see it as a case of the more, the merrier,” Castiel suggested distractedly, too confused by the bizarre coincidence to argue the point.

“You’re so naive,” Crowley scoffed. “Nobody likes sharing their pie, regardless of how many slices there are to go around. They would rather have slapped an injunction on these amateurs faster than you could say ‘lawsuit’ except for the rumor that Heron's Cove are going to have King.”

“King?” Castiel repeated stupidly, too busy thinking about how much he liked sharing pie with Dexter to follow Crowley’s comment.

“Stephen King.”

“No.”

“Oh yes. Which explains why Scribner, who haven’t supplied any authors to the Bangor LitFest for years, are apparently going to send a couple of other top name writers to support this tiny amateur thing happening in Heron’s Cove. It’s not what you know, it’s who you know. And that’s why Random think the whole thing will explode into a near publicity riot and don’t want to miss out, so have decided to fly Tad Williams up to promote at Heron’s Cove.”

“Tad Williams?” Castiel choked, his eyes widening in shock.

“I can’t believe you’re fanboying more over Williams than King,” Crowley drawled. 

“Quite apart from his genre being my preference, I simply can’t comprehend any reality in which Stephen King would decide to support an event here. This is a town of 412 people. It barely even qualifies as a village, truth be told. It’s so tiny, the whole population would fit inside a low rise apartment block.”

“Ah ha, I knew it. You said here. What a totally wonderful and fortuitous coincidence,” Crowley smirked. “So you have absolutely no excuse to refuse Random’s preference that you attend the Heron’s Cove event too. As you say, you aren’t contractually obliged, but slighting your neighbors would be rather unforgivable.”

Castiel cringed slightly. Though he had already admitted he was a writer, so the locals would probably expect him to support the event anyway—damn, his mailbox probably was crammed with publicity over this thing—he doubted anyone other than Dexter had read any of his books. As Crowley said, he was rarely featured on the NYT bestseller list. He probably should make a point of letting Dexter know he was C.J. Novak, though, before the reveal caused any embarrassment to either of them.

###

Dear Mr. Novak

Heron’s Cove Festival of Literary Arts

On behalf of the Heron’s Cove Town Association, I would like to extend a warm invitation to you to attend the opening of the 1st Heron’s Cove Festival of Literary Arts on Sunday, 29th August. It would be an honor to have your presence as a guest at our event.

The currently confirmed guests of the festival include Mr Stephen King and Mr Tad Williams, and further authors will be confirmed closer to the event. Also, at least 20 members of the Maine literary association are expected to attend.

We trust that you will be able to join us for this Festival.

As this is our inaugural year, we cannot offer financial compensation for your valuable time but free Pie will naturally be provided. 

Yours Sincerely,

Mr. Dean Winchester 

Event Organizer.

The beautiful hand-written script was familiar. This letter had been penned by Eileen Winchester, not Dean Winchester, and he’d already told both Eileen and Jody that he was a writer, so the invitation wasn’t a surprise. What shocked him was the fact it had been addressed to him by name. How had Eileen discovered his identity?

Then he frowned at the rest of the mail on his kitchen table. Although the majority of letters were simply marked ‘occupant’, a few of the more recent communications had begun to arrive with his surname on. So, given the way information seemed to flow throughout Heron’s Cove, he imagined whomever acted as the mailman had spread that knowledge faster than a wildfire. 

Which at least would save him having to actually ‘confess’.

Because if everyone knew, then Dexter also obviously knew.

Since it was Wednesday, and he had decided that Wednesday was unofficial ‘pie day’, he would have regretted having to possibly spoil that occasion by bringing up the subject of his career. He had spent several hours in bed the previous night tossing and turning rather than sleeping, fretting over the necessity to confess his deliberate obfuscation of his identity.

Dexter’s failure to mention the subject himself was proof, however, that Castiel had blown the whole thing out of proportion. Dexter had obviously come to the correct conclusion that Castiel had merely wished to avoid mutual embarrassment by identifying himself as the writer Dexter had been unwittingly enthusing over to his face at a time when they had been barely acquainted.

Since Dexter hadn’t subsequently mentioned anything, obviously preferring not to draw attention to his inadvertent faux pas, Castiel decided he should take the hint and also fail to directly raise the subject.

###

Dear Mr Winchester,

Re: Heron’s Cove Festival of Literary Arts

Thank you for sending your kind invitation to attend your inaugural event on 29th August.

As a new resident of Maine, I am pleased to have the opportunity to support a local event and I confirm my availability to attend. My publishers, Random House, will apparently co-ordinate directly with your association to arrange the logistics.

I look forward to attending in exchange for ‘free pie’.

Yours sincerely,

C.J. Novak.

###

“I opened it and it was like I’d died and gone to heaven,” Dean sighed. “C.J. Novak moving to Maine and coming to our town. I was all ‘who needs Stephen King anyway?’. But I admit I don’t get why he wrote me a formal acceptance letter.”

Sam pondered that. It was a bit weird, under the circumstances, unless it was one of those old fashioned manners things. Like old Mrs Huntsucker who always penned hand-written thank you notes to anyone in the town who gave her assistance. Even helping Mrs Huntsucker across the road with her shopping was liable to get you a thank you card in the post a couple of days later.

“Maybe it’s a writer thing,” he suggested. “Writing is his preferred form of communication after all.”

Dean huffed impatiently. “I know that. All of the authors have formally RSVP’d in writing, even Mr. King despite him verbally agreeing to do it in a telephone conversation anyway. And I never thought I’d ever be able to do a name drop like that in my life. So it wasn’t the written acceptance that threw me. What confused me was that he specifically said in his reply that I sent him an invitation. But I didn’t. It hadn’t even occurred to me that Random was his publisher too.”

Sam raised an eyebrow at his wife, clearly inviting her to confess everything.

Instead, she shrugged and lied like a Boss, “Well, Random House said they’d extend the invite to other authors when they confirmed Tad Williams. So I guess that’s how he was formally approached in writing. They must have advised him he should rsvp you directly.”

“Makes sense,” Dean agreed, his frown clearing. “But what’s the odds, huh? My favorite writer ever. In our town.”

“So what did Cas have to say about the Festival?” Sam asked pointedly. 

“Cas?” Dean asked, flushing guiltily. “What makes you think I’ve spoken to Cas about anything?”

“Apart from the obvious, you mean?” Sam snorted. “Donna told Jody, who told Eileen, who told me, that Cas has bought your favorite pies every Wednesday for three weeks running and then disappeared into Dexter’s with them, only to emerge an hour later empty handed.”

“I might as well live in a goldfish bowl for the amount of privacy I get in this damned town. It’s no wonder Cas keeps to himself, is it?” Dean snapped defensively. “Besides, we’re too busy eating to talk about important shit and, anyway, I don’t want him to think I’m bragging about my part in the Festival. Not to mention the phone never stops ringing. If it’s not publishers, it's agents. Then there are marquis rentals, catering companies, local guest houses, you name it. This Wednesday it was so crazy that we just gave up and Cas ended up just leaving me the pie to eat later by myself. I mean obviously the Festival has come up in conversation but only in passing as I have cursed a blue storm in front of him over one issue or another.”

“I definitely thought you and Cas would manage to connect over having a shared interest,” Eileen said, with a disappointed frown. “Having something in common like this LitFest.”

Dean looked genuinely confused. “I don’t think Cas approves of Literary Festivals at all, so the fact I’ve organized one is hardly going to endear me to him anyway. He said he was looking forward to meeting Tad Williams, and that he had a couple of first editions he’d like signed in theory, but then he immediately said that authors generally get forced to do these things by their publishers, so he would make a point of not approaching Tad for an autograph. Then he gave me this very earnest speech about how meeting people in the flesh after building them up in our imagination inevitably always ends in disappointment and that all our idols have feet of clay anyway, so better to just take people as we find them and forget preconceived ideas.”

“And that didn’t, um, upset you?” Sam asked cautiously. It appeared the plot had come to nothing if Cas was making such a deliberate point of invalidating Dean’s excitement over learning his identity.

Dean shrugged. “Why would it? He’s got a point. For readers and fans these things are special events. For the authors, I guess they’re just repetitive boring obligations and they probably get cramp from signing all those books.”

“I can see that,” Sam agreed. “But I still thought you’d be more… oh, I don’t know… disappointed he’s being so dismissive of this whole thing after you’ve put so much effort into it.”

“He moved here from a big city. A little festival in Heron’s Cove probably is small potatoes to him.”

“I think ‘small potatoes’ went out of the window when Mr King agreed to open the Festival,” Sam pointed out, feeling aggrieved on Dean’s behalf. “I owe both Cain and you an apology over that one.”

“You do,” Dean agreed smugly. “I’ve been telling you for years that Dexter’s was the original inspiration for ‘Needful Things’.”

“I just couldn’t see how anyone could meet a sweetheart like Dexter Cain and be inspired to write a character like Leland Gaunt,” Sam laughed

“That’s like saying Cujo was based on an actual rabid St Bernard,” Dean replied, rolling his eyes. “The whole point of the breed choice was the shock value of making something intrinsically good into a monster.”

“Exactly,” Eileen agreed. “King’s particular genius is seeing a lovely thing and immediately imagining a dark and twisted version of the same. The fact Dexter’s inspired him is a huge compliment from that perspective. The fact King wrote a dark version of the store practically screams the real thing is something wonderful.”

“I’m hoping Cain is well enough to come to town for the day,” Dean agreed. “I’m going to be too busy with the Fest to open the store myself. Those ‘Dexter’s Needful Things’ t-shirts you’ve designed will probably sell like hot cakes to all the King groupies and I really think it should be the real Dexter sitting behind the counter selling them. People ought to get the exact same experience of Dexter’s as King originally did, otherwise they’ll be short-changed. Nobody wants to meet ‘Dex-lite’ rather than the original inspiration for Gaunt.”

“I don’t think there’s a single person in Heron’s Cove who would agree with the idea you’re in any way a poor substitute for Cain,” Eileen insisted. “But I agree you’re probably too young and pretty to give the role the required gravitas on the day.”

“Calling your brother-in-law ‘pretty’ is not appropriate behaviour for a respectfully married woman,” Sam sniffed.

“Suck it up,” she smirked. “Though, speaking of pretty things, Dean, now that Cas has developed a peculiar pie habit, do I take it that the rules of engagement between the pair of you have changed for the better?”

“Kinda,” Dean admitted. “He’s such a weird little duck. I probably ought to introduce him to Stephen King. I bet he could come up with some explanation for Cas’s behavior.”

“How so?” Sam asked carefully.

Dean shrugged. “I just can’t figure him out. As you’ve already pointed out, every Wednesday he brings a pie to the store, eats it with me, and leaves. Since the first time, when he mentioned Atticat, we don’t even discuss anything remotely personal. We eat pie, then he tells me about a book he’s read, or his plans for his garden, or, more usually, he just sits and listens to me bawling people out on the phone for a while like he’s totally fascinated, and then he goes home, disappears into his house and that’s it until the next Wednesday.”

“He still doesn’t answer his door at home?”

“I took your advice and stopped knocking weeks ago,” Dean replied, with a shrug. “I figure he’s like Mr. Finch. Everything has to be on his terms or not at all. It’s kinda frustrating but, hell, some things are worth waiting for I guess.”

“Does he ever mention Cain to you?” Eileen asked, with studied casualness.

“Not really,” Dean shrugged. “I mean, he mentioned bees to me once and I was going to suggest we took a drive over to Cain’s place when the Fest was over and done with but then the phone rang and it was the stall rental company with an issue and by the time I sorted it out Cas had given up and gone home.”

“Probably just as well though,” Eileen said. “Cain isn’t really up to visitors at the moment, is he?”

“True,” Dean agreed.

“So what is the latest news about Cain’s chemo?” Sam said, and just like that the subject was changed.


	5. Chapter 5

“I feel like I owe you an apology,” Eileen told Castiel, as he helped her to move her prints into her van for transportation to the festival site. She had drawn a short series of ‘Needful Things’ related pictures, one of which had been chosen for the promotional t-shirts on sale in Dexter’s, and she would be offering small prints of the works from a stall inside the Festival with all profits going to the Town’s beneficial fund.

In fact all profits from the event would be donated except for Jeff’s since—conveniently—no one had ‘remembered’ to tell the old man what the rest of the townsfolk were doing.

Dexter had told Castiel that the ‘Beneficial Fund’ was a safety net account, used to pay bills on behalf of the more vulnerable locals. If, for instance, Mrs Huntsucker’s pension didn’t cover her winter fuel bill or if Jeff didn’t sell enough stock at the Festival to keep paying his rent through the quiet winter months, the beneficial fund would be used to cover the shortfalls.

In Heron’s Cove, the residents practised a form of neighborliness that would put most religious organisations to shame. Which was why Castiel had felt morally obliged to offer his assistance when Dexter had mentioned Eileen would need some help to move her stock the afternoon before the Festival, because Sam wouldn’t be home from work in time.

“How so?” he asked curiously.

“The original idea for a literary festival was mine and Dean said you only agreed to participate under protest.”

“I wasn’t aware my feelings on the matter had become public knowledge. Though, honestly, I admit I’m rather dreading it. I don’t do well with crowds, so I always find publicity events somewhat of a chore. Having said that, I definitely wish to support the event. I appreciate it is important for Heron’s Cove as a whole and Jeff in particular. But even if that were not true, I would offer enthusiastic support simply to acknowledge all of the magnificent effort Dexter has put into the Festival.”

Eileen almost dropped the box of prints she was holding. “Dexter?” she questioned.

“Oh, forgive me. I know Dean is your brother-in-law and I do realize he is the official events organiser, but I am not quite as oblivious as you imagine. I know for instance that it is Dexter who requested Stephen King’s involvement in the Festival, which is the primary reason this tiny event has snowballed into something quite remarkable.”

“Well, yes,” Eileen agreed reluctantly. “Cain really came through for Dean, I admit. But without taking anything from that considerable contribution on his part, a single phone call hardly equates to ‘magnificent effort’. Dean is the one who put all of this together.”

Castiel shook his head mullishly. “Although he has not said a word to me to claim any credit and I have tried not to eavesdrop, I have listened to his side of enough telephone conversations to be fully aware of how industrious he has been in enabling this Festival. I am, frankly, disappointed that none of the Festival literature acknowledges his hard work.”

Eileen’s mouth dropped open and she just blinked at him for several moments.

“Where exactly did you overhear these conversations?” she asked finally.

“In his shop,” Castiel replied. “As I said, it tried not to eavesdrop since that is rude but, honestly, Dexter is not… circumspect… when he is annoyed. Several of the people he was conversing with were clearly sources of great frustration.”

“In his shop,” she repeated slowly. “Would that be over pie?”

“Exactly,” Castiel agreed.

“On Wednesdays.”

“Yes.”

“Because you visit Dexter in his shop, every Wednesday, bearing pie?”

“I am most certain my habit of doing so has become part of the town gossip,” Castiel pointed out dryly. “I am solitary, not simple. I am fully aware that my interest in Dexter has been noticed and undoubtedly commented upon.”

“I...um… remember you saying you didn’t believe Dexter would ever return your interest.”

“His friendship is still a prize worth winning.”

“You don’t think he is interested in anything more than friendship?”

“I don’t know, but as long as he insists on leaving the proverbial door open for his ex-boyfriend’s return, I cannot allow myself to consider anything of that nature.”

“His ex-boyfriend?” she squeaked.

Castiel frowned at her. “Were you not aware that Mr. Finch had left him?”

“Oh my god,” Eileen moaned.

“Are you alright, Eileen? You look rather pale.”

“I… I… just remembered a thing… yes… a thing. Can you possibly finish this yourself… while I just go handle this... thing?”

“Of course,” he agreed, then shrugged in confusion as Eileen threw the van keys at him and literally ran back up the road between the harbor and Gacy Street.

###

“Have none of you interfering idiots ever heard the saying about the road to hell?” Dexter Cain demanded, glowering incredulously at his visitors.

Sam, Eileen, Jody, Donna and Charlie all squirmed uncomfortably under his glare.

“We just thought…” Charlie began.

“You clearly didn’t think at all,” Cain snapped. “Why didn’t any of you talk to me about this before?”

Jody winced. “We, um, thought we’d set them both straight weeks ago. We all got confused by all the confusion and we all thought we knew what was going on and by the time we realized we were wrong we’d all kinda made the situation worse rather than better.”

“Kinda?” Cain mocked.

“It was only when I spoke to Castiel earlier this afternoon that I finally figured it out,” Eileen admitted, “and I maybe should have just put Cas straight then and there except the whole Dean and C. J. Novak thing is maybe an even bigger issue now than the original misunderstanding. Tomorrow is going to be a complete and utter disaster. There just isn’t time now to set things right and I think Castiel is going to believe the whole thing was a deliberate prank the whole town pulled on him, or something, and Dean is never going to forgive us, and it’s just a big fat mess.”

“So let’s be sure I have this straight. Somehow this Castiel Novak has managed to live in Heron’s Cove for three whole months, as Dean’s next door neighbor, whilst believing Dean is actually me? How is that even possible?”

“That part isn’t actually that surprising if you think about it,” Jody said. “He met Dean at Dexter’s, which would have created a natural initial assumption, and how many people actually use names when talking to each other face to face? If Castiel was a more sociable person, it would have been cleared up much sooner because he would have mentioned Dean by name, well by the wrong name, to someone else and whoever he was talking to would have put him straight. But he doesn’t talk to other people if he can help it, so by the time he did mention the name Dexter to someone he’d already met you, so Eileen naturally thought he was talking about you.”

Cain arched a brow at Eileen. “How old is this Castiel?”

“About 30,” she said, with a wince.

“And you honestly thought he was more attracted to me than to Dean?” he demanded incredulously. “I assume you have actually seen your brother-in-law? I have not spent years under the misapprehension that you are Deaf rather than Deafblind?”

“Hey,” Sam protested.

Eileen waived off his attempted defence. “Well, okay, in retrospect it makes less sense,” she muttered. “But the fact you call Dean ‘Dex-lite’ probably didn’t help the general confusion,” she added sulkily. “Somehow the only person who ever addressed Dean by name in front of him was you… and you used the wrong name.”

“So this is now my fault?” Cain asked archly.

“Of course not, but it’s just an example of one of a myriad of tiny misunderstandings that just built on top of each other like bricks. Like Castiel somehow never made the connection between his neighbor Dean, who he never met, and ‘Dexter’, who he met at the store because, I think, Benny deliberately painted such a bad picture of ‘Dean’ as some kind of heartless ‘lothario’ that Castiel would never have associated that person with the lovely, kind man he had already met,” she said.

Sam nodded his agreement, “The fact Castiel never answers his door didn’t help, of course. And I told Dean to stop even trying to approach Cas at home because I thought he was a shut-in, or a hoarder, or had some other similar mental health issue. His almost flat affect definitely suggests something like that. It wasn’t until Eileen found out he was a writer that his antisocial behaviour made more sense but that was the same conversation when he said he was attracted to you, so then we wanted to discourage Dean’s interest in Cas because we thought he’d get hurt. So we didn’t let Dean know why Cas hadn’t been opening his door,” Sam explained.

“But you said they are friends. That they meet up every week. How could Dean never have said anything just in casual conversation that would have clued Castiel in to the fact they are neighbors? It stretches credulity too far.”

“I think the phone ringing every five minutes hasn’t helped but honestly, it all comes down to Atticat Finch,” Charlie groaned. “That damned cat is the real reason for everything.”

She explained how Castiel had inadvertently stolen Dean’s cat, and Sam had enabled the ‘theft’ in a bizarrely ill-conceived attempt to be a yenta, then Dean, being Dean, had been reluctant to confront Cas over the theft because he thought Cas needed Atticat more than he did. So between the Cat and Cas’s need for privacy, he’d felt mentioning anything relating to the house was a no-go.

“And apparently whenever Atticat Finch was mentioned in conversation, Cas thought Dean was talking about an unfaithful long term boyfriend, which is why Cas stopped talking about any personal stuff with Dean too,” Eileen added. 

Cain gaped like a fish.

Charlie offered an apologetic shrug.

“It would never have occurred to Cas that Mr. Finch was actually the name of the cat, because the cat is female. I know, long story, but the point is they have been at cross-purposes all along. Cas has friend-zoned Dean because he thinks he’s in—or only freshly out of—a relationship with a man named Atticat Finch. Dean has friend-zoned Cas because he thinks he’s a weird grumpy dork who deliberately ignores him 90% of the time, and is only willing to offer this weird weekly pie-date, and he worries that asking for more will drive Cas to run dark again. Cas thinks he’s been invited to the festival by his neighbor Dean Winchester, rather than his friend ‘Dexter’, so he’s never had the conversation with ‘Dexter’ about being C. J. Novak. So Dean has no idea C. J. Novak is his friend Cas,” she groaned.

“I can’t believe I missed it,” Sam grumbled. “We spoke after Dean found out about C. J. Novak coming to the festival and he was doing the whole ‘Fancy C. J. Novak coming to our town’ conversation and I never heard what he didn’t say. He never once said ‘I can’t believe Cas is C. J. Novak’ which, obviously, is what he would have said if Cas had said something. But why would Cas mention it to Dexter anyway? He had an invitation from Dean.”

“And although Castiel is a successful writer and clearly high-functioning, and his concern for Atticat is highly suggestive that he is a genuinely kind and gentle person under his… well, grumpy exterior, there’s no doubt he has certain challenging behaviors that outweigh his physical attractiveness,” Jody said, delicately. “The fact that Dean seems completely blind to traits that other people might find too much effort to handle, made us certain that they were perfect for each other. And Dean never reaches for what he needs, so we were just trying to gently push them together.”

Cain was silent for a long time, mulling everything over. Finally, he shock his head and sighed. “I always warned Dean that ownership of Dexter’s came attached with a great burden. Some would call it a great cost. Living purely to help others leaves you blind to addressing your own needs. I always knew he had a propensity for putting other people first, never stopping to consider his own happiness. From that perspective I understand why you all attempted to manipulate this situation to his benefit. You all meant well.”

Sam chewed nervously on his lower lip. Despite Cain’s words, the older man still looked furious.

“I hate that you have put me in a position where I am forced to play devil’s advocate,” Cain explained, before Sam could even speak. “Because since all of you are standing here, wringing your hands and saying ‘poor Dean’, someone has to instead champion Castiel in this matter. You will say nothing to Dean. I will visit this Castiel and fully explain the situation. Hopefully, he will understand that Dean has been in no way complicit with the misunderstandings and deceptions. If he does not believe me, or chooses to leave town anyway rather than face the situation you have created, then so be it. I will give him the opportunity to do so before Dean even learns of this matter.”

“But…” Sam began.

Cain cut him off with a sharp gesture.

“Dean would expect nothing less of me than to offer Castiel whatever he needs. My failure to do so is the one action that Dean would never forgive. I will do the right thing and let the cards fall where they may.”

“He’ll run,” Eileen moaned, her eyes filling with tears. “I just know he will. He’ll leave town and Dean will never forgive us.”

#####

“Well, that was a lot easier than I expected.”

Castiel blinked owlishly at the vaguely familiar, bearded, gray-haired man standing on his front door step, his tall figure framed by the red glow of the sunset so that his face was slightly in shadow.

“Huh?” he asked inarticulately. It wasn’t just that he couldn’t recall where he had seen the man before; what truly stole both his breath and his words was the shock of the unexpected. This was not who he had anticipated seeing when he opened the door and that fact alone made his heart thud and his palms sweat. Even if this had been Gabriel, he would have felt the same way. In Castiel’s opinion the phrase ‘pleasant surprise’ was always an oxymoron.

One, one thousand; two, one thousand; three, one thousand; inhale, exhale.

“I was told you never answer the door,” the man explained with an amiable smile.

It was enough to break through his confusion. Irritation trickled up his spine, and he stiffened, feeling his facial muscles tightening as he demanded, perfectly reasonably in his opinion, “In which case, why did you even knock?

The man threw his head back and chuckled a full-body laugh that reminded Castiel so much of Dexter that he abruptly remembered exactly where he had seen this man before. This was the man who had approached them at the Farmer’s market. The one who had mentioned Mr. Finch. The one, he suddenly remembered, who had said he didn’t blame Mr. Finch for straying because he’d seen the ‘competition’.

Instant dislike of the stranger pooled in his already knotted stomach and his usual almost-emotionless affect transitioned into a mask of cold irritation.

“I answered because I thought you were someone else,” Castiel stated bluntly. “Had I known your identity before opening the door I would not have done so. Good day.” 

And he shamelessly closed the door in the man’s face.

Well, he attempted to do so. Unfortunately, the stranger moved his right foot quickly enough to prevent the door from actually slamming closed.

“Ow,” the man said, from behind the door, his complaint loud and pointed but definitely not genuine since he was wearing heavy work boots that would have protected him fully from the impact of the door.

It was that, as much as the pounding of his own heart as panic began to rise in his chest at the man’s refusal to simply leave, that caused Castiel to yank the door open wide once more and growl, “I did not harm you and even if I had it would be your fault anyway because you are not welcome and you should just go. Now. Go now. Good bye.”

He firmly began to reclose the door.

The stranger still refused to move his foot.

Castiel began to pant heavily. He pulled the door open again and glared at the man furiously. “Why won’t you leave?” He meant to sound angry. Because he was a little breathless, it sounded more like a plea.

One, one thousand; two, one thousand; three, one thousand; inhale, exhale.

The man frowned, looking concerned rather than offended. “Are you hyperventilating?”

Castiel took several deep steadying breaths, then said “No.”

“Oh. My mistake. Can I come in?”

“NO.”

The man raised his hands in a gesture presumably meant to demonstrate he was harmless. “I just thought you looked like you needed to sit down. Tell the truth, I could do with sitting down too,” he added with an empathetic smile.

“You can sit in your car as you leave,” Castiel said pointedly.

Unfortunately, rather than taking offence, the man looked inordinately and inappropriately amused.“You really aren’t a people-person, are you?” 

“I certainly do not appreciate being ambushed on my own doorstep,” Castiel growled. Or, at least, tried to growl. His voice emerged on the wrong side of breathless.

One, one thousand; two, one thousand; three, one thousand; inhale, exhale

“Do you always have a panic attack when a stranger knocks on your door?” The man’s tone was soft, rather than mocking, but it still made Castiel stiffen with embarrassment.

Embarrassment was good. It enabled him to calm his racing heart, take a new deep breath and clench his fists to steady himself. As Gabriel liked to say, fake it until you make it. He drew himself up to his full height and glared at the would-be home invader with a cold sneer of disapproval.

“I don’t know you,” he bit out. “Anyone who invites a perfect stranger into their house deserves to be discovered dismembered in a ditch. Please leave of your own volition before I am forced to call local law enforcement to remove you from my property.”

“Oh, of course. How rude of me. I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Dexter Cain.”

Castiel’s brain stuttered as he tried to compute the words.

“Dexter Cain, Senior?” he queried carefully, judging the man to be the right age.

Cain’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. “I am the one and only Dexter Cain. The man who now owns and runs Dexter’s is not my son, as much as I truly wish he was. His name is Dean. Dean Winchester. Your neighbor.”

###

Cain felt almost incandescent with rage at everyone.

Well, not absolutely everyone. Although he was definitely intending to kick Dean’s ass for being an idiot, he knew the boy well enough to know he was as much a victim of everyone’s meddling as poor Castiel, and at least Sam had tried to throw the brakes on earlier, but Cain was definitely thinking murderous thoughts about all the other players in this ridiculous game.

No matter how well meaning everyone had been, and he had no genuine doubt that everyone—well, with the possible exception of Benny—had honestly been shipping Dean and Castiel, their meddling had enabled a situation in which the only true innocent was currently on the verge of a nervous breakdown. A road to hell, indeed.

It didn’t matter to him that Castiel’s odd demeanor and behavior had been the catalyst for most of the misunderstandings. Watching the dark-haired man’s hands trembling as they attempted to dispense pills out of a bottle branded with the name of a well-known antidepressant, even as Cain bustled around Castiel’s surgically clean kitchen making him a cup of hot tea sweetened with some of Cain’s own honey, the older man was furious.

He didn’t ask what the pills were specifically for. It was none of his business. It was sufficient to have witnessed Castiel’s panic attack for himself. There were at least a dozen diagnoses that might explain Castiel’s behavior and medication but Cain didn’t think labels helped. There was no one-size-fits-all reason for anxiety disorders.

Besides, regardless of the underlying reason, this intelligent, gentle man with his sad blue eyes and grumpy face and self-evident caring nature, did not deserve to be gulping for breath and struggling for composure in his own home.

Even if he hadn’t been forewarned by his earlier visitors, Cain could see the evidence of Castiel’s sweet soul with his own eyes. A fat, happy Atticat Finch was lying on Castiel’s exterior window ledge catching the last rays of the setting sun, ‘his’ neck adorned by a sparkly pink collar. In the kitchen itself, Cain could see a ‘humane’ mouse trap in the corner, baited with a large heap of peanut butter. Unless he was mistaken, the trap had deliberately been left baited but un-set. Rather than actually trying to capture a mouse, it appeared Castiel had decided to resolve its thievery simply by voluntarily feeding it like a welcome house guest. Outside the window, he could see a series of half-full bird feeders. On the kitchen table, there were several books and magazines on the subject of Plants for Pollinators and organic gardening. 

Perhaps Castiel had defence mechanisms that translated into behavior that was prickly and rude, even sometimes aggressively so, but all Cain saw, when he looked at his pale face and shaking hands, was the kind of vulnerable, gentle soul that Dean would have been drawn to like a moth to a flame.

That Cain himself was drawn to the same way.

How could Dean possibly have resisted this man when everything about him called to Cain; and he and Dean were definitely cut from the same cloth?

Cain knew everyone in town thought he was Dean’s father. He wished it were true. He sometimes wished Mary Winchester had accepted the offer of what she had needed, rather than what she had wanted. Then, though, Dean and Sam would not exist. Their places would have been taken by sons sired by Cain’s loins and that thought, the idea of a world without Dean in it, was not something Cain wished to contemplate. In every way that mattered, Dean was Cain’s and that was more than enough. Certainly more than he deserved.

“I only became aware of this comedy of errors a couple of hours ago,” Cain told Castiel, as gently as though he were addressing a spooked horse. “I had to make the choice of whether to come to see you or go directly to Dean. I chose you. I apologize for blindsiding you like this, particularly in view of your dislike of allowing strangers into your house, but I couldn’t run the risk of you discovering the truth in a more public setting.”

Castiel blinked at him several times, his eyes deep pools of swirling emotion despite the deceptive immobility of his face. A little color returned to his cheeks as either the pills, or the process of actually following the routine of taking them, allowed him to gather himself and when he spoke his voice was surprisingly steady.

“I do not specifically object to having visitors. I do not deliberately seal myself away from the world and I am not agoraphobic,” Castiel said carefully. “I admit to having certain patterns of behavior that are suggestive of that diagnosis, but I definitely have no specific phobias regarding the presence of other people in my home.”

“So you don’t mind that I am here?” Cain queried.

“Not fundamentally. I merely prefer my own company as a rule. I am perfectly aware of my shortcomings as a conversationalist. Personal interactions tend to cause me stress and I prefer not to experience stress inside my own house.”

“That’s perfectly reasonable,”Cain agreed. “Eileen said you told her that you never deliberately intended to ignore Dean. That he simply always chose the wrong moment to knock on your door,” he said, his tone questioning.

“That is correct,” Castiel agreed. “Initially it was a genuine misunderstanding caused by nothing more than bad timing. One I did not particularly endeavor to put right, however,” he admitted, a little sheepishly. “Not understanding his true identity, I afterwards chose to avoid him for his sake. However, I did decide not to ignore any further attempts on his part should he choose to approach me directly but, since reaching that decision, he has not returned. Because you drive a similar truck, I heard your approach and mistook the sound as being that of Dean returning home. In view of tomorrow’s Festival, it made sense that he might approach me this evening. So I believed it was Dean calling upon me when you knocked my door earlier. That was the reason for my… reticence. I do not ‘enjoy’ surprises.”

Cain nodded thoughtfully. “I apologize for arriving unannounced and being too rude to leave when asked. It was perfectly reasonable of you to deny me entrance, but I couldn’t delay this conversation.”

“I’m feeling exceedingly foolish,” Castiel admitted heavily. “As I replay every interaction with Dean through the filter of this new knowledge, I realize there was never any deliberate attempt on his part to mislead me. I never once directly addressed him by name, therefore he obviously had no way of knowing I believed him to be you. The fault lies entirely upon myself.”

Cain frowned gently. “Hardly, considering the well-meant collusion of other parties, although I am surprised but extremely glad you accept that Dean is genuinely unaware of the identity confusion. I must admit, except for your initial frea… um… shock… you have taken this exceedingly well.”

Castiel rolled his eyes impatiently. “The term freak-out would be a perfectly reasonable descriptor of the panic attack you just witnessed. I am not unaware of my mental health issues, Mr. Cain. I regret them but am not ashamed of them. If I had a broken leg, I would walk with a limp and feel no shame over it. It just so happens I have a broken brain. I limp. I take medication. I limp less. I accept that I will never cease to limp at all.”

Cain nodded his understanding of the analogy.

“I have stage three cancer,” he replied. “I’m not ashamed of that, either, but it’s often considered a taboo subject by other people.”

Castiel considered that, then nodded. “You’re correct. Mental Illness is not the only form of medical issue that is considered a socially unacceptable topic of conversation. I am also aware that I cluster. I have a pattern of multiple avoided situations but I have a loud, frequently obnoxious, brother who has made it his life’s mission to force me to confront and overcome those aversions. He does so frequently with the application of irreverent humor or by the simple act of always endeavoring to behave so outrageously that the spotlight is removed from my own actions. That, I believe, is one of the primary reasons I have been drawn to Dex… Dean. He is such a charismatic individual that I can safely sink into the shadows beside him. Also, he has always appeared oblivious to my… behaviors. I thought he was simply blissfully unaware I am not… normal. I find myself vexed to learn that he has always perceived me to be... difficult.”

“Isn’t it preferable that he knows who you truly are and likes you anyway?” Cain suggested gently.

“Preferable but incomprehensible,” Castiel replied with a sigh. “I could imagine Dexter... Dean... perhaps becoming interested in me, since our interactions were relatively normal. Learning that every one of those interactions happened whilst he also understandably believed I was deliberately repulsing any friendly approach from his side is… perturbing. I find it exceedingly difficult to understand why he has tolerated me at all.”

Cain rolled his eyes impatiently. “I find it perturbing that you constantly refer to yourself as not ‘normal’. With what mysterious yardstick do you measure ‘normality’?”

Castiel frowned at him repressively. “Whilst I assume you mean well, I do not require a ‘cheerleader’. I assure you that if ‘pep-talks’ were sufficient to resolve my issues, my therapists would live in far inferior houses. I am fully aware of my differences from the accepted norm. I cannot afford to pretend otherwise. For me, life is about balance. There is a level of medication that allows me to function within the realms of social acceptability. A higher level of medication allows me to avoid almost all anxiety attacks. It is an unacceptable trade off, however, because at that level of medication I cannot work.”

“I understand you are a highly successful novelist.”

“My agent would argue with that description. He constantly berates my refusal to write a more ‘popular’ genre of fiction. He fails, perhaps, to appreciate that it is my inability to perceive the world as others do that provides the tools with which I can create such believable alien worlds. There is an irony, I suppose, that my most favorable reviews applaud my ability to convincingly portray an ‘alien’ mindset. Sometimes, it is in the responses of readers to my fiction that I become most aware of my differences. What they mean as praise is often unintentionally hurtful. 

“On a more positive note, it is considerably cheaper than therapy. I not only have a solid and steady fan base that allows me to earn sufficient money to avoid other employment, but in effect I receive payment in exchange for allowing people to psychoanalyse me. As my brother Gabriel is fond of saying, the situation is ‘win,win’.”

Cain’s mouth curled into a wry smile. “I admit to being surprised by the amount of humor you apply to your own situation.”

“Mark Twain said, ‘Humor is the great thing, the saving thing after all. The minute it crops up, all our hardnesses yield, all our irritations, and resentments flit away, and a sunny spirit takes their place’,” Castiel replied. “Though ‘sunny’ unfortunately still appears to evade me.”

Cain snorted despite himself. The idea of seeing a ‘sunny’ smile on Castiel’s grumpy face was, he had to admit, a comical thought.

To his surprise, though, he saw the edge of Castiel’s mouth twitch in response to his amusement and the blue eyes sparkled slightly. 

“You’re laughing on the inside, aren’t you?” Cain accused, ridiculously charmed by the odd man whose house he was standing in.

“A little,” Castiel agreed, his grumpy expression not withstanding.

“It must be difficult to feel emotion but struggle to express it visually.”

“Less difficult than to fail to feel it at all,” Castiel countered. “I have blunted affect, which is far less disabling than emotional blunting. My brother Gabriel says I should take advantage of it by learning poker. He insists we could ‘make bank’ in Vegas.”

“Your brother sounds like a wonderful man.”

“He and Dean are remarkably similar in many ways,” Castiel replied. “Not physically, fortunately, since it would be extremely embarrassing if my own sibling caused similar physiological reactions,” he added dryly.

Cain barked with laughter. “I like you,” he announced, surprising himself even more than he did Castiel. “I came charging here like a knight on a white horse to rescue you and yet discovered you’re more of a misunderstood dragon than a damsel in distress.”

“Thank you?” Castiel said uncertainty.

Cain nodded. “It’s most definitely a compliment. You might be surprised to learn that I don’t like many people. I have made it my life’s work to be kind to people, and I feel genuine affection for most of the people I encounter. But I don’t necessarily like them. Very few people truly touch my heart. Other than Dean, of course, I can’t even remember the last time I voluntarily had visitors to my own house before tonight. Even my fondness for Sam is more of a necessary echo created by loving Dean. I shouldn’t be so surprised by you. I suspect your novels reveal much more of your true nature and, since Dean is apparently your number one fan, I should have anticipated you would prove far more than the sum of your parts.” 

“I was of course aware that ‘Dexter’ enjoyed my novels,” Castiel admitted. “But given the way information travels within Heron’s Cove I had no idea he did not know that I was C.J. Novak. I believed he was simply attempting to avoid my embarrassment by his decision not to mention it.”

“Which is why I wanted to visit you, rather than Dean. The bottom line is that the only thing Dean doesn’t know about you is your career. And since he’s already attracted to you, even believing you are a recluse without a career at all, discovering you are his favorite author can only increase his interest in you. When Dean discovers you are C.J. Novak tomorrow, he might be embarrassed at his failure to have put two and two together but, past his initial shock, his reaction will undoubtedly be hugely positive. Discovering your identity will explain so many of your... foibles... that it should give him confidence.

“You, on the other hand, becoming so publicly aware of the mistaken identity would inevitably, and totally understandably, have reacted... badly, I believe,” Cain suggested carefully.

Castiel blinked at him slowly. “I can’t imagine why you would think so,” he said dryly. “Finding myself in a public environment, already something I consider anathema, and abruptly discovering not only that my ‘friend’ Dexter is actually my nemesis ‘Dean’ but that the entire town is laughing about it behind our backs? Why on earth would I have taken that amiss?” 

Cain shook his head and snorted softly. “Can I take it from your somewhat sarcastic humor that you are willing to reconcile the fact that ‘Dexter’ is actually ‘Dean’? And forgive the fact you’re living in a town of unrepentant interfering yentas, of course.”

“I greatly appreciate you visiting me with this information,” Castiel said. “I do believe I would have... overreacted had I been blindsided tomorrow. I do not enjoy... surprises. So I thank you for allowing me to have my panic attack in private,” Castiel added dryly. “It has possibly given me enough time to utilize the situation to my advantage.”

Cain frowned suspiciously. “How so?”

”I believe there is a saying that one never has a second chance to make a first impression,” Castiel replied. “Obviously that ship has long sailed for ‘Cas the cop-calling, cat-stealing Hermit’. C.J. Novak, however, possibly has an opportunity to present himself in a better light.”

Cain chuckled again. “I do like you,” he repeated. “In the course of a brief conversation you have managed to turn an almost epic disaster into a positive opportunity. Although you could, of course, simply walk over to Dean’s house right now and clear up the understanding face to face without any audience.”

“Were I a normal person, that would undoubtedly be true,” Castiel agreed unapologetically. “However, the most important knowledge a man can ever learn is the ability to know themselves. I walk in constant fear of falling.”

It was Cain’s turn to say “Huh?”

“I was disingenuous when I claimed not to have agoraphobia. It’s a commonly misconstrued condition. People generally believe it equates to a fear of leaving one's house at all and, yes, it is possible for people suffering the syndrome to become shut-ins. But that is effect not cause. It has nothing to do with location. The syndrome is a case of people developing a phobia over their own tendency to have panic attacks in public. I usually deny the diagnosis simply because it creates an incorrect understanding of my clusters. I have an ever growing list of triggers that need to be avoided that do sometimes culminate in the decision not to leave my home at all.”

“So you are agoraphobic?”

Castiel shrugged. “To an extent, I suppose. Considering the amount I have spent on therapy, one would imagine I would have a more definitive answer. I was diagnosed with an ASD when I was three, but other than a blunt affect I display few of the typical behaviors. According to my last therapist, my personal presentation is primarily Stendhal Syndrome with a side order of General Anxiety Disorder. It’s all nonsense, of course, since the GAD is only his attempt to explain how I respond positively to anti-depressants despite Stendhal Syndrome being supposedly psychosomatic. The effectiveness of the tablets definitely points to a chemical imbalance—though there is an argument for the placebo effect, of course.”

“I’m not familiar with Stendhal Syndrome.”

“Not many people are,” Castiel agreed. “Tachycardia, diaphoresis, chest pains and even loss of consciousness caused by the sight of something indescribably beautiful. In the majority of cases it refers to the sight of a work of art or some wondrous architecture. It’s why pilgrims collapse at Mecca and Jerusalem, why some people pass out in Florence or the Louvre. I suppose it’s my mind equating the sight of beauty with a genuinely religious experience.”

“Not a lot of transcendent art around these parts.”

“You’d be surprised. I find certain aspects of Eileen Winchester’s artwork to be quite breathtaking. Particularly her dancing bees. In my case, I rarely experience Stendhal over two dimensional artwork however. A particularly stunning sunset can trigger an attack. As can, I have recently discovered, a particularly stunning individual.”

“Like Dean?”

“Saying he ‘takes my breath away’ is not hyperbole.”

“That sounds… intense,” Cain suggested carefully.

“Incapacitating,” Castiel agreed. “To a large extent, I believe the ‘misunderstanding’ has been entirely helpful in that respect. It was far easier to handle the symptoms of my reaction to him whilst being 99% certain that the only possibility was to win his friendship. Now those imaginary barriers have been removed, it is highly likely that my symptoms will return with full fury and make conversation impossible. Knowing that, I require a way to ensure I can communicate my feelings effectively even should I find myself forgetting how to breathe entirely and swooning at his feet like a heroine in a dime-store romance,” he growled, rolling his eyes impatiently at his own acknowledged weaknesses. 

Cain frowned at him thoughtfully. “I want to make it absolutely clear that my primary concern here is for you,” he said, “but the more we speak, the more I feel that I have inadvertently done you a disservice. I feel rather ashamed of myself, to be honest. I loathe it when people see me through the filter of my cancer, just as I object hugely when Eileen is judged to be disabled rather than Deaf. You are not your anxiety disorder, regardless of what labels other people place upon you. You are an intelligent, articulate man and I fully understand why Dean is drawn to you.”

“You do?” Castiel asked, genuinely bewildered. “Because I am fully aware of my shortcomings. Humans depend almost exclusively on facial expressions to form first opinions. My lack of affect invariably conveys the impression I am anti-social and unfriendly at best. Were I able to compensate for that impression with confident verbiage, I would perhaps be able to overcome that perception. Hand in hand, however, both flaws reinforce the misunderstanding. Then I become stressed by the knowledge I am creating a poor impression and often suffer an anxiety attack that causes me to withdraw completely and that only further confirms the initial impression. It is a catch-22 that only three people in my entire life have cared sufficiently to see beyond.

“My brother, who is my tireless champion, my previous neighbor Amelia who became a valued friend but unfortunately wished for a physical resolution to our relationship, and Dean. Because the three are in such a clear minority, I believe their perception of me is more indicative of their difference from the norm than any suggestion that I have managed to behave differently in their presence.”

“I disagree,” Cain replied. “I would suggest that at least the GAD part of your diagnosis is flawed. It is only logical to extrapolate that to be true because you do behave differently in the presence of anyone who simply accepts you for how you are. In evidence I offer the fact that we have been talking together for less than an hour and, once we were past the initial awkwardness, our conversation has flowed seamlessly. So perhaps the majority of your ‘issues’ are caused by other people, rather than yourself. You are not responsible for people failing to engage with you simply because they are intimidated by your frown. The cascade of reactions you suffer on meeting new people would be stopped in its tracks if people didn’t make instant judgments about you.” 

“Perhaps,” Castiel allowed. 

“I’m no expert, but I’d even hazard that rather than having an anxiety ‘disorder’ you probably simply have learned behaviors due to other people’s intolerance of your differences. Admittedly, if you have been practising those learned behaviours for three decades you probably will never learn to overcome them entirely but the bottom line is that had you been raised in a kinder society, I doubt you would have developed them in the first place. Is it fair to assume, from your specific championing of your brother, that the rest of your family are less supportive?”

“My mother has always found me a source of embarrassment,” Castiel agreed. “And, not unfairly, blames me also for Gabriel’s more outrageous antics since they are invariably performed for my benefit. Our relationship has always been strained but my confession of my sexual identity proved the final straw. I doubt she and I will ever converse again. I believe I should find that idea distressing, but it actually is a considerable relief.”

“A parent’s love should be unconditional,” Cain growled. “She doesn’t deserve your distress over a situation caused by her intolerance. Which takes me back to your comment that the three people you have found it easy to interact with are also ‘different’. I obviously can only speak of Dean. In his case, I would agree wholeheartedly. Dean Winchester is genuinely the nicest, most genuine man I have ever had the pleasure to know. He would gladly give the shirt off his back to a perfect stranger if he truly believed they needed it more than he did. Yet ‘nice’ is a peculiar concept. It creates preconceptions. 

“Tell a complete stranger that Dean is the nicest man in town and they may be surprised to discover he is just as likely to be found brawling in a bar, several drinks to the worse, on a Friday night as he is to be offering old Mrs Huntsucker a lift to Sunday service. They might find it hard to witness his sometimes wicked sense of humor or be surprised to hear him cuss someone out with words that would make a sailor blush. Dean is not a saint.

“He is a layered, complex individual who carries his own weights and scars. He is charming and personable, yet humble and self-effacing and surprisingly vulnerable. What is important, though, is that he has no interest in being seen to be a good man. He puts no effort into creating or maintaining his reputation. He simply is a good, caring and kind man. It is his deeds that speak for him. As it is your deeds that speak for you.”

Castiel frowned. “What deeds?”

“Put aside, if you will, your undoubted irritation that Sam’s failure to advise you that your ‘stray’ cat belonged to Dean allowed your understandable confusion over the true identity of Atticat Finch. Consider instead why he did it. You walked into Dexter’s as you. Warts, frowns and all. You met Sam whose previous impression of you had been considerably unfavourable, particularly in view of the 4th of July incident, yet during the course of your interaction he reconsidered his stance and then deliberately created a situation that he believed would encourage a conversation between you and his brother.

“So, consequences aside, you have to ask yourself why he did so. Sam is highly protective of Dean. I cannot believe he would have encouraged further interaction between the pair of you if you had not somehow created a good impression. The same is true of Charlie, Eileen, Jody and Donna. Whilst you have every right to be annoyed with their interference, the fact remains that every single one of them met you and liked you. More to the point, they met you and came to the decision that Dean would like you and not one of them saw you as being an unsuitable object of his attention.

“More importantly, perhaps, Benny met you and saw you as an immediate potential rival and, perhaps accepting the inevitability of you meeting Dean, chose to ‘poison the well’, as it were. So for all you believe yourself to be unapproachable and always immediately judged unlikeable, and yes I accept that has been your prior experience, it seems that in Heron’s Cove you fit in without a problem. So, perhaps, it could be said that none of us here are ‘normal’.”

He watched as Castiel absorbed the words. His face barely registered his emotions but Cain saw a universe of feelings chasing through the younger man’s eyes.

It was all there, if only someone cared enough to look closely enough. If only someone ignored Castiel’s glower and paid true attention to the man trapped behind the grumpy mask.

Cain was confident that Dean had been paying attention

“What do you want to do now, Castiel?” he asked gently. “How can I help? What do you need?”

Castiel took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. “I have an idea of a way to tell Dean how I feel about him without my behaviours creating yet new and impossible obstacles between us, and perhaps you and my brother can assist me with my plan. But before confiding in you, I need to know who you really are,” he said.

Cain stiffened uncertainly. “I don’t understand.”

“I think you do,” Castiel said. “The peculiar thing about Stendhal Syndrome is that it’s consistent. I can see why people believe you’re Dean’s father. On the surface, almost everything about you is the same. Yet I look at him and all I see is something transcendent. I look at you and see nothing but shadows. Dean genuinely is what you only pretend to be.”

Cain smiled wryly, “Horribly perceptive but a little unfair, I think. My motivations have been genuine for at least forty years. I allow that good deeds can’t erase bad ones, though. I believe you’re a little like Missouri. You have more than a touch of the sight. You’re a product of your time though. In centuries past, you would either have been feted as a prophet or burned at the stake. In modern times you are simply diagnosed as mentally ill and are medicated into normality.”

“Perhaps,” Castiel agreed. Gabriel had said similar on more than one occasion.

“When I started out I was just a peddler moving across the blind face of a distant land. Moving, always moving. Always gone... and in the end I'd always offer weapons. And they'd always take them.”

Castiel’s eyes opened wide with shock. “I know those words,” he whispered.

Cain’s mouth twisted into another wry smile. “The words weren’t mine. But it’s hardly plagiarism either under the circumstances. Stephen’s paraphrase was so much tidier than my original confession.”

“You’re Leyland Gaunt.”

“I used to be,” Cain admitted, with a sigh, his eyes clouded with distant memories. “Oh nothing as dramatic as you’re undoubtedly imagining. There’s no ‘magic’ here and I’m no demon in disguise. We all have regrets. I simply have more than most. Like you I arrived at Heron’s Cove believing there was nowhere in the world where I would ever be liked, let alone wanted. Unlike you, my woes were of my own making. I was no innocent ‘Beast’ forced to wear an angry mask that concealed my inner beauty. I wore a handsome smiling face that concealed a dark and putrid soul.

“Yet in Heron’s Cove I somehow still found acceptance and a home. I found a tiny town remarkable only for the genuine kindness of its residents. And in accepting that freely given kindness, in choosing to embrace it, I made the decision to earn it. Creating Dexter’s was my attempt to gain personal redemption for past deeds far less altruistic. Dean doesn’t know about my past. I’d prefer you don’t taint him with that knowledge. I’ll be gone forever, soon enough, and would prefer my ancient guilt and regrets to be buried with me. But the legacy of the good I have done here will live on under the care of a truly righteous man. I would, selfishly perhaps, like to know his life will not be lived alone as mine has. I deserve my solitude. Dean does not. And neither, I believe, do you.”

###

Gabriel put down the phone and, despite having no audience for his theatrics, gave a dramatic groan and banged his head on his coffee table. Twice.

He was not a miracle worker.

He had only slightly over twelve hours to achieve the impossible.

Even attempting to do so would probably end up with him being fired by a boss who still hadn’t forgiven him for taking off for the entirety of May and early June without notice.

And would require him dealing with Crowley, who always made his skin crawl but was worryingly capable of pulling in the most improbable ‘favors’ because the smirking agent always seemed to know where the bodies were buried.

But impossible wasn’t a word that Gabriel had ever had much truck with.

He’d been twelve years old when he’d overheard a doctor telling his mother it was ‘impossible’ that Castiel would ever live a ‘normal’ life and that an institution would be the most appropriate environment for him.

He remembered listening with growing incredulity to their mother plotting to send Castiel away like an embarrassing secret, simply to preserve her respectable life of bridge clubs and coffee mornings.

Castiel knew nothing about that of course. He’d only been three years old. He didn’t remember the week of living hungrily in a deserted squat, amongst the detritus of used needles and empty drink cans, as Gabriel had spent his entire saved allowance on a series of furious calls from a phone box to a mother too horrified by the idea of scandal to even report them missing to the police, until she finally relented and agreed Castiel would never be sent away.

He’d been twenty-one, studying at a local college rather than following his dreams because there was no way he would ever have left Castiel alone with that woman, when he’d attended a parent-teacher conference at Castiel’s school and had been advised that it was impossible that his brother could be found an assisted inclusive placement in a general high-school and that if home-schooling was impossible, then institutionalization would be advisable.

Gabriel had dropped out of college and had used the entire balance of his student loan account to hire a lawyer to slap so many threatened lawsuits against the local educational authority that, miraculously, funds had been found in the local High School school budget to hire a specialized teacher after all.

He’d been twenty-six, having finished his degree in night school whilst working full time as a salesman for a local furniture store, when his little brother not only graduated High School a year before his peers—suck on that, you assholes—with a 3.25 average but also won a full ride to Yale.

Where Gabriel still lived, having carved out a life in Connecticut whilst living there to support Castiel until his brother had graduated, and wanting to remain nearby even after Castiel had rented his own apartment next door to the unfortunate Amelia.

Which was how, after a quick google search, he decided impossible was edging towards possible. He could drive down to New York in a couple of hours, get a flight from New York to Bangor that departed at 6.30 the next morning, hire a car and be at Heron’s Cove well before 10.30. 

The question was whether Crowley could manage to work a miracle between ten in the evening and six in the morning. It had to be possible. The book had already been typeset, the covers were already printed. All Crowley needed to do was get the printers to add the dedication to the first page and run off and bind a couple of dozen sample copies.

Overnight.

So they would be ready and waiting for him in the airport by 6a.m.

It looked like, yet again, he was going to have to empty his savings account to save his brother.

But he was grinning as he picked up the phone to light a fire under Cassie’s agent.

###

It was none of his business, he told himself, as he set off towards the Festival grounds a little after 5am.

It didn’t matter.

He didn’t care.

He slammed his foot on the gas and only just realised he was in reverse, rather than drive, in time to slam the brakes on a mere second before he would have front-ended Baby.

Heart thudding in his chest, even as he double-checked in the mirror that he had definitely not hit his beloved Impala, he cast a fresh baleful look in the direction of Cas’s house.

Or, more to the point, the all too familiar truck that had been parked outside it all night.

All night.

If it had been anyone else’s truck he would have marched over there and demanded to know what the goddamned hell was wrong with him? How was he good enough to be a pie-buddy but not worthy of even setting a foot inside the hallowed walls of Cas’s house when someone else could stay the entire night?

But because of whose truck it was, hurt warred with anger and won.

Why had he stayed there, instead of with Dean if, as he expected, it had simply been Cain’s way of avoiding having to drive all the way from Bangor for an early morning start at Dexter’s? More to the point, why had Cas allowed it?

Oddly, it never even occurred to him the overnight stay might have been a romantic one. Cain wasn’t the type to do a bootycall, even if he wasn’t so fucked up on meds that it was probably impossible anyway.

So, the hurt was simply as personal as his initial discovery that Cas had appropriated Atticat.

Didn’t they say things came in threes?

Cas had already stolen his house and his cat. So maybe it had always been inevitable that he would move on to appropriating the closest thing to a father Dean had ever had.

###

“It was my fault,” Sam said, as Dean bitched and griped as they finished laying out the stalls in the marquee. The majority of the setting up had already been done the day before. Heron’s Cove wasn’t the kind of place where they had to worry about vandals. The actual books however had been left stored in town just in case any visitors with less scrupulous morals had sought the Festival ground out before their arrival. Various publishers had sent boxes filled with books and posters to be laid out before the Festival started. Many of the authors due to attend had been at the Bangor Festival the day before so would be driving down to Heron’s cove only after checking out of their hotels that morning.

“All the local guest houses are fully booked and Cain is a light sleeper. I knew you were going to be up at stupid o’clock this morning, so I begged a favor off Cas,” he lied. Sam was glad he knew exactly why Cain had been at Cas’s house the night before otherwise he would certainly have suspected it to have been a ‘booty call’. 

“I can understand that,” Dean snarled. “I just don’t get how come Cain can stay but I can’t even visit. Do I have a personal hygiene problem I’m unaware of?”

Before Sam could reply, Dean blew into his palm then sniffed it for halitosis. Just in case.

It would have been funny if Sam wasn’t feeling so guilty. Except for a terse text from Cain that Cas would not ‘let the festival down’, he had no idea how the conversation had gone.

“I imagine the presence of a guy old enough to be his father in his house is far less stressful than a visit from a young, attractive guy like you,” Sam offered.

Dean flushed and dropped the box he was carrying. “Shut your cakehole,” he muttered. “Cas doesn’t think of me that way.”

“Course he doesn’t. I bet he has a pie date every week with all the shopkeepers in town.”

###

The Lit Fest was totally insane.

Just the logistics alone required more time than a whole team of people could supply. For Dean Winchester, that translated into the need to spend the majority of the morning running around like a whirling dervish. The town had hugely underestimated the number of visitors who would attend.

King’s presence proved to have been a hugely ill-kept secret. Despite deliberately not using it on any promotional material—happy to simply use the fact of his support to encourage the attendance of other, less famous writers—it soon became evident that the town hadn’t supplied adequate parking facilities for so many visitors, so Dean had been forced to send Sam and Jody out to gain permission to use more fields from local farmers, then marshall traffic to those places.

Eileen was busy knocking up signage to guide people from those parking places to the Festival. Donna was organizing supply runs for the caterers to ensure they didn’t run out of food stocks. Cain was holding down the fort at Dexter’s, selling tee shirts and autographs in equal measure and Dean was too busy trying to keep the events flowing to visit the main events Marquee himself. He didn’t even get the opportunity to witness the speeches that launched Heron Cove’s inaugural Lit Fest. He was too busy wrangling the caterers and the souvenir stalls.

He was aware over three dozen authors had arrived, including King, Williams and Novak, but hadn’t personally met any of them since he was too busy running the festival to enjoy it himself.

It wasn’t until late morning, when the initial charging hordes of visitors had settled to a more manageable ebb and flow, that he finally found time to step back, take a breath and begin visiting the tents that contained the writers.

He was on a mission. He had earlier purchased at considerable expense—through Jeff of course—a full first edition collection of Tad William’s ‘Otherland’ series which he was determined to get signed for Cas. He knew, from Cas’s comments, that his awkward friend would never approach the author himself but Cas had said he would like some author-signed copies.

It was, he grumbled to himself, stupidly telling that even despite his irritation at Cas ‘stealing’ Cain, in addition to Atticat, that Dean still wanted to offer Cas the gift.

He had it so bad for the grumpy weird dork that he seemed incapable of just giving the entire thing up as a bad job.

Oh, who was he kidding? He knew perfectly well he didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of ever convincing Cas to see him as more than a ‘friend’. But that was enough. That would have to be enough. Maybe he and Grumpy Cas would just grow old together like the odd couple, living side by side in two separate houses and Dean would never get invited into Cas’s actual home.

But maybe, just maybe, they’d reach a point where they might spend their evenings together on a couple of recliners placed together on the lawn that separated their houses and share a pie and a beer or two.

And, hell, maybe that was a good enough outcome to aim for.

He finally reached the front of the queue and thrust his books with uncharacteristic shyness towards Tad Williams. “They’re for a friend,” he said, gruffly. “Could ya... um... sign them with this?”

He thrust a crumpled note in the author’s direction.

‘To Grumpy Cas, because a world without Sour Apples is a world without perfect pies.’

“Pie as metaphor, huh?” Tad Williams asked, with a friendly grin.

Dean shrugged, his cheeks burning. “Pie is everything,” he said.

“Word,” Tad agreed, signing with a flourish.

He decided to take the books and stow them safely in his truck before visiting the other tents, a decision that cost him considerably more time than the walk to his truck and back. Having been seen and accosted by a frantic Donna, he spent over an hour on the phone dealing with the mundane but crucial issue of a lack of an adequate number of portaloos to handle the number of visitors.

By the time he had tracked down a firm in Bangor who promised to deliver several extra units by early afternoon, it was gone noon. The primary consequence of which was that he missed Stephen King entirely. The writer had graciously stayed and signed autographs for a couple of hours after opening the festival, but left long before Dean managed to solve the toilet issue.

Embarrassingly, as grateful as Dean was to the great writer, he didn’t actually care that he hadn’t met him. The only author Dean was fanboying about himself was C.J. Novak.

He was now clutching original first editions of the four books so far published in Novak’s SpaceAngel series. They weren’t pristine collector copies. They were worn, well-read, well-loved books. Personal treasures, not cynical investments, and the idea of getting them inscribed was—secretly—far more thrilling than the idea of the Lit Fest proving an unqualified success.

The queue was so long for the writers inside Novak’s tent that Dean was forced to stand in a line that snaked past several food concessions, something that his empty stomach protested angrily, but he didn’t dare lose his place in line. He was too aware that some disaster might occur any minute elsewhere in the Festival and demand his attention long enough that he would miss his chance to meet Novak entirely.

One of the women in line in front of him had evidently already queued for this tent before, because she was busy convincing her friend that it was ‘worth the wait’.

”Honestly, he is dreamy, Sarah. Drop dead gorgeous. I think the glowery thing is an act. A deliberate attempt to be mysterious or something. But somehow he suits looking angry anyway. I asked him to sign my book and he looked at me like he was furious that a mere human was daring to address him. Just like one of his own Angel characters. All smitey and fierce. It made me quiver.”

”Ooooh,” her companion said. “You think he’s signing in character?”

”Gotta be. How else could someone look so bad-tempered and still be sex on legs?”

Dean snorted under his breath. If the women thought scary mad couldn’t also be sex on legs, god help them if they ever met Grumpy Cas.

The queue shuffled forward so slowly Dean was beginning to think he would have to give up. There could be a thousand different things going wrong elsewhere while he stood here indulging his personal agenda.

Plus he hadn’t seen Cas yet anywhere, despite Cas’s promise to attend the Lit Fest. It was beginning to worry him. What if Cas had decided, understandably, that the crowds were too much for him? Dean thought he should at least go see Cain and check whether Cas had decided to spend the day at Dexter’s rather than at the Fest itself.

And then, suddenly, he was inside the tent flap, where the one single queue split into four, although the three lines for the other writers inside the tent were considerably shorter than the one that led to the table where a dark haired man was sitting at a table surrounded by huge posters formed of the three of the books in Dean’s hands and a fourth poster showing the illustration on the second edition of C.J. Novak’s first novel.

C.J. Novak.

Cas Novak.

Because, even though he was still a good thirty feet away from the Table, he would know that wild dark bed-head anywhere.

He didn’t even know he had stepped out of the queue until the muttered protests of the people in front of him in the line caused Cas to look up and meet his incredulous gaze with steady, familiar blue.

”Hello, Dean,” he said, as though there was no one else in the room. “I’ve been waiting for you to arrive. I have just a few early copies of the fifth book in the series, and wanted you to be the first recipient.”

”Me?” Dean choked, wondering whether he was dreaming.

Cas glowered at him, his face scrunched in its typical angry glare. 

“You’re the only Dean I know,” Cas said, a little waspishly. He reached under the table and retrieved a paperback, then waved it in Dean’s direction.

Definitely a dream, Dean decided, as he stepped forward through the excited muttering of the crowd at the existence of a book not due for release for another two months, a book which, unbeknownst to them, had been printed less than twelve hours previously.

Cas was flushing darkly now, his breath coming in rapid panting breaths as Dean reached out and took the book from him.

”R..r...r... read the... the...d...d...d... dedic...c..cation,” Cas growled breathlessly.

Frowning with confusion, Dean opened the book with trembling fingers, turned to the dedication page and… froze.

Except for a slight shaking in his shoulders, he was silent and motionless for an interminable time.

Then he looked up, green eyes shining wetly.

“This for me, Grumpy Cas?” he asked gruffly, cheeks flaming.

“W...who... else? You...you..you’re the only D...D... Dean I know,” Cas repeated.

“Pie as metaphor, huh?”

“Exactly,” Cas said, in front of a full-tent of townsfolk, writers and fans.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean said, then threw back his head and laughed a full-body explosion of joy.

The sight was beautiful, glorious, transcendent.

Castiel decided it was the most wonderful thing he’d ever seen.

And promptly fainted.

###

‘This novel is dedicated to the salty but sweet Dean,

Who had the patience to teach me that even the most unpalatable Sour Apple can be combined with Salted Caramel to make a perfect pie.’

The End

.


End file.
